


Skid Marks

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Albino Dave, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexuality, Depression, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 21:17:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 50,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3993196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New high school graduates Karkat Vantas and Dave Strider have always known of each other, but they've never actually spoken. That is, not until their mutual friend, John, puts them together in one of the most unlikely of ways. Aside from that, John pairs them up at the most unlikely of times, too, seeing as Dave has just been hospitalized after being involved in a hit-and-run crash.</p>
<p>This is a story about how a gift basket for Dave turns into a relationship between the graduated cool kid and the former debate team president.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On the Topic of Hospitals and Anime

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure how long this will last if it does at all but I'm just playing around with an idea and getting my Homestuck fics to a nice number that's easily divisible by five because those numbers make me happy. I hope you enjoy however much of this I get through, though.

Long before we actually met, Dave and I used to have brief encounters with one another because of our overlapping friend groups. Both of us were friends with a certain prankster by the name of John Egbert, and both of us had former relationships with the self-proclaimed class prosecutor, Terezi, in high school. I’d dated her for three weeks and Dave dated her after we broke up. (I never really cared enough to figure out how long they were together, but rumors put them somewhere between one to three months.)

Even then, we never really spoke. We each kept in our own respective bubbles. Every now and then John would encourage me to talk to him, but I’d always have some sort of excuse. Usually, I had homework to do or a project to finish.

Two weeks after graduation, though, there was a news blurb about him one night. I’d gotten the information from John earlier, though. He’d been in a hit and run accident and was in the hospital. I felt bad for him, but I never really planned on visiting until John dropped by one day with a gift basket of juice cartons and a few shitty cartoon shows on DVD. Apparently, he’d been meaning to give them to Dave but had gotten busy doing whatever the hell it is that he does when I’m not around. So, I was tasked with taking it over.

Now, like I said, I didn’t know a lot about him. I only had a few odd snippets of gossip to go by. He was in the same grade as all of us despite being two years older than us. The dominant theory was that he’d intentionally flunked out of a grade to stay with John. According to John, though, Dave missed a year of school after his older brother was killed in a car accident. I also knew that Dave was famed for being the oddball cool kid. Somehow, he managed to randomly end up in the cool kid crowd through his own alleged charisma rather than through the usual method of just being a goddamn athlete. He rarely missed a day at school, but it was also rumored that he had some of the lowest grades in our high school class. (I never really followed up on that rumor. Grades were never really my thing, either.) That, however, was the most I knew about him.

So, I didn’t exactly plan on it being some sort of campfire gathering. That’s not to say I planned on going in and throwing the fucker the basket before hightailing it back home, though. I planned on at least asking him how he felt. At the very least, I’d make sure he was as close to okay as he could be before I left. That plan was blown to hell the minute I stepped into the hospital.

To start, I had to wait twenty minutes before I was allowed to see him. Apparently, he was being taken outside for some supposed fresh air. According to John, any outings he took were probably going to be comprised of a period of time in which a gaggle of pissed off nurses would attempt to stop him from smoking. So, when I was notified ten minutes later that he’d been brought back inside, I wasn’t very surprised.

“Floor three. Take a left out of the elevator and he’s the fourth door on the right.”

I followed the receptionist’s instructions and found him in about the same shitty shape I expected.

The left side of his body was a mass of casts and bandages. His forearm was wrapped in a plaster cast that extended down his wrist while his left leg was set in place from his ankle to his hip. A tube stuck out from his chest and led down to a medium-sized suctioning machine.

From John I’d learned the specifics of his injuries. Broken arm, multiple rib fractures, punctured lung, and extensive leg injuries that doctors had since operated on. Somehow, though, he’d managed to escape injuries to his head and face because his car was just a bit taller than the one that hit him. Still, he’d managed to dramatically fuck over the hearing in his left ear from the impact.

So, really, with all that considered, he looked relatively decent. He still wore those stupid shades he always had with him and had managed to get his hair to look somewhat presentable. He was propped up in a sitting position on the bed and seemed fully alert. Aside from that, I also knew that he’d been here for about two weeks, so he was obviously making a recovery. (When he was first found he had to be extracted from the car by force and was unresponsive for a week. I knew that much only because John constantly texted me about every little improvement or problem that Dave encountered.)

After a moment of thought, I decided that he was clearly conscious enough to carry on a conversation. Seeing as he was watching television when I entered, I cleared my throat to get his attention. Once he’d turned towards me, I introduced myself. “I’m Karkat Vantas,” I began, “John wanted me to bring you this gift basket.”

He smirked. The top portion of an artificially dyed blond eyebrow popped into view from behind the sunglasses. “Cool. So, I’m guessing you know my name, right?”

I filed his response away under the ‘Shitty Self-Inflated First Impressions’ section of my memory before continuing. “Yeah. You’re Dave, right?” I responded as politely as I could.

The forced diplomacy seemed to work, too, because he just kept going with what he was saying. “Great. So, what’s in it?”

Despite knowing near nothing about him and only speaking with him for less than a minute, I was finding his demeanor to be wholly unpleasant. So, before I could stop myself, it slipped out of my mouth, “If you take off those ridiculous sunglasses, maybe you’d be able to see further than the tip of your fucking nose.”

He noticed, too. He propped his sunglasses up with the thumb of his good hand. For the first time, I realized that his eyes were bright red. At that moment, it also occurred to me that the assumption I’d made—that he dyed his hair white—was incorrect. Even so, I was too taken aback to really say anything. He seemed to take all my commentary with a grain of salt, though. “Nice to meet you too,” he says, his almost insufferable smirk growing slightly wider.

I sighed. I could feel my cheeks heating up, but I managed to shove the feeling aside long enough to sit down in the chair positioned to the left of the bed. I set the basket on the bed beside him and looked through it quickly. “Some juice boxes,” I said, giving inventory as I went, “Two bags of truffles, three shitty looking anime movies and a few bags of chips.”

He nodded and grabbed the basket with his good hand. He rifled through the contents and fished out one of the animated monstrosities. “You should pop that shit into the DVD player. It’s right under the TV,” with this, he tossed the film at me. As I fumbled with the case, he continued talking. “Thanks for bringing this. You can go now if you want.”

I nodded. By now, I’d started the movie. Seeing as it seemed to be an entire series on one disk, I’d just set it to play all the episodes and paused it. Then, I’d handed Dave the remote. Still, as he spoke, Dave started the video and I’d be lying if I said that the theme tune suddenly filling the hospital room wasn’t catchy. In fact, it was catchy enough to catch my attention.

Dave took notice of this. He honed in on my interest like a hawk swooping down and scooping up a mildly confused mouse. “You can also stay here and watch some of this dank ass anime,” he snickered. “ _Neon Genesis Evangelion_ is a classic, you know.”

The name reminded me of the fact that John had originally been forced to watch that show some time during freshman year. He’d texted me complaining of the mindfuckery within for at least a week. Still, the narration was intriguing enough. “ _Today at 12:30, a state of special emergency has been declared all over Kanto and Chubu districts around Tokai district. Please take refuge in the designated shelters. Repeat…”_

With a reluctant sigh, I made the terrible decision to sit down and watch the show within him. Really, I only planned to stick around long enough to see the end of the first episode; then, I planned on going home. Somehow, though, I wound up sitting through three hours of the bullshit.

The entire time, Dave served as a running commentary track. “Look at that high quality animation, man,” he’d say sarcastically at various points. Still, at other points, he’d provide background. Of course, the background information didn’t make much sense out of context. Still, the most frequent background information he gave was, “That’s Gendo Ikari and I fucking hate him.”

Not to my surprise, the show wasn’t really something I’d say I liked. It was decent, but the entire plot was too much of a clusterfuck for me to even touch with a ten foot pole. Really, I sat there to listen to his unnecessary and thoroughly entertaining commentary. After all, there wasn’t really much to do at home. I was only going back to help Kankri clean up.

As much as I hate to admit it, I would’ve stayed longer, too. After those three hours, though, our viewing session was interrupted by a nurse who promptly kicked me out to apparently take Dave back for follow up surgery.

* * *

 

“I’m home,” I yelled as I entered the worn-out old apartment I shared with my older brother, Kankri. “Hello?” I called again. I wandered a little deeper down the hallway.

“You’re late.”

I jumped. Looking up, I saw Kankri—a good foot taller than me and considerably more intimidating in regards to his composure—towering above me, his arms folded across his chest. His eyes were narrowed, his brow furrowed.

“You’re. Late,” he repeated.

“I was dropping off a care package for Dave… He’s a friend of John’s.” I mumbled.

Kankri paused for a moment. He seemed to turn the name over a few times in his head before finally continuing in his usual deadpan lecture voice, “Yes. The albino, right? That’s very nice of you. Why weren’t you back here on time?”

I sighed. “I was keeping him company.”

“Well,” Kankri grumbled, shoving a bucket of water and a mop into my arms, “Now you can keep your chores company. I’ve already cleaned most of the house, but I’m not going near that filthy pit that you claim as your room.” Before I could reply, he had his back turned to me and was already wandering away. Presumably, he was going to go do something boring and pointless. He ran some sort of trashy blog—I knew that much. Hell, I’d been on it a few times. I was trying to dig up dirt on him, but all I found were walls and walls of long-winded and mostly nonsensical rants.

That aside, he obviously wasn’t coming back to discuss the issue and I wasn’t about to fight him over it.

* * *

 

For some incomprehensible reason, I decided that I’d visit Dave the next day. That day just so happened to be a Tuesday in July and—while the day prior was still in July—this particular day was one of those shitty humid days. Even so, I followed through with my commitment and wound up wandering into his room at around 3:00 in the afternoon.

When I arrived, I found him sitting up in bed again. A thin tube connected to a tank of oxygen was wrapped over his ears and under his nose. Aside from that, though, he seemed to be in the same condition as before. The fact that he greeted me as soon as I came in seemed to confirm this. “Back to watch more?” he snickered.

“Anything but that,” I’d bantered. With that said, I pulled up a chair and sat down at the foot of his bed. I propped my feet up on the bottom railing. “So, what’s up today in your trash heap of a life?”

Dave shrugged. “Nothing much. I’ve been itching for a cigarette, though.”

“Yeah, no, I’d rather you not take out the whole hospital with your shitty nicotine craving,” I pointed out.

He paused briefly before realizing what I meant. “Yeah. That’d be pretty shitty.”

I nodded in agreement.

Then, for a while, we just sat in silence.

He watched television and, well, I watched him.

I couldn’t really help it. I didn’t have anything else to do—going home meant more chores from Kankri, after all—and he didn’t want to talk, so my attention grabbed onto the first thing it could. And that was him. No, rather, it was the way his fine white hairs brushed against his face when he moved and how he would push himself forward a little and squint at the television from time to time. It was how his lashes sometimes brushed against his shades and how he constantly had to push said shades back up onto the bridge of his nose.

It was all that and more. And, somehow, it held me captivated for a good hour or so. It grabbed my attention and only let go after I registered the fact that Dave was staring directly at me, smirking. At that point, I ripped my gaze away from him.

He, however, still noticed what had been happening. “You know, if you’re going to admire me, I’d suggest going to the side that isn’t banged up to hell,” he pointed out.

By then, I could already feel my cheeks heating up. “I… I wasn’t admiring you, you self-absorbed shitstain!” I eventually managed to stammer.

He wasn’t falling for it. His smirk grew wider. “It’s okay. I know I’m absolutely ravishing,” he snickered.

“Okay, now that wasn’t what I was thinking at all,” was how I defended myself. Then, hoping he was the distractible type, I changed the topic. “So… Have you been enjoying your basket of bullshit?”

“Eh,” he shrugged. “Tell John it was a little too light on that apple juice. This place only gives me so much, you know. Then, they get all up in arms about the other patients needing juice, too, so…” (It was at this point that I mentally congratulated myself for what seemed to be a successful avoidance routine.)

“Will do,” I replied.

From there, the conversation went normally. We discussed how he felt. There was some small talk about the weather and what was happening in each of our lives. Overall, it was a pretty relaxed but pleasant visit.

* * *

 

Before I’d left, he’d given me a piece of paper and I shoved it into my pocket. I never really thought about the paper until I got home. However, once I arrived at the apartment and ignored Kankri’s sustained complaining about me not ever being home to help, the fact that I never asked what the paper was for hit me in the face. In fact, it hit me hard enough to prompt me to pull out the page and open it up. And, there, scribbled in red ink, was a simple message: _roses are red and tree bark’s burnt umber, car crashes suck, so have my phone_ _number_. Beneath this admittedly humorous little rhyme was, as promised, his phone number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, the whole Neon Genesis Evangelion inclusion here is based off of a random thought I had once that just happened to be along the lines of "[dave strider screaming like shinji ikari]" but we all know Dave is total anime trash. You can stay up to date with the shit I do when I'm not writing at [my blog](http://tennantstype40.tumblr.com) and there's a tag there for the fic if you want to do something with it. IDEK.


	2. In Regards to the Passage of Time

After my second meeting with Dave, my life turned into a whirlwind of what I like to call “Life Shitting on People.” To start with, Kankri and I were both removed from the apartment on last minute notice that there was a mold problem in the crawlspace. Luckily, though, the landlord was wrong and there wasn’t actually mold. Unfortunately, we were still displaced for an entire week because of the royal fuck up. Shortly afterwards, a storm knocked another hole in the roof and we had to patch it up. Seeing as neither I nor Kankri were professional contractors, this amounted to putting buckets under the leak and getting booted out for another half a week while crews supposedly repaired the roof. And, even after all that was done, we had to spend another week tossing out ruined items and cleaning the floors.

Despite all that shit, though, I still managed to keep in touch with Dave. In fact, I managed to keep in touch a bit too well. My phone saw a sudden spike in usage. We texted at least twice a day for the two weeks I didn’t get to see him, so, that surely meant something.

Over those two weeks, I’d also gotten to know a lot about him. It wasn’t his entire life story, of course, but it was a good variety of interesting facts. He loved dogs. He hated beef jerky. Little things like that. Really, they weren’t much, but they were enough to keep me interested in him. They kept me from seeing him as another face in a massive crowd. In a way, they even made me fonder of him. They gave him more humanity and personality—much more than his usual cool guy act would suggest he even had.

* * *

By the time late July rolled around, I had yet to pay him another visit. So, after getting all the bullshit in my life cleared out of the way, I took a day off of my usual business to visit him. On the way, I used my cumulative knowledge of him to make a little gift basket of my own. John already bought him apple juice, so I shot for the major foodstuffs. And, by that, I mean I pretty much bought him a huge bag of ridiculous “Extreme” Goldfish crackers.

By then, they’d deemed him stable enough to be sent home. So, I found myself biking halfway across town to visit him in one of the most expensive areas of the entire fucking district. Of course, it was of minor comfort that he informed me of the fact that his sister owned the house, not him. So, he was just staying there until he could go find a decent job. Parking near their house—a cozily small but still visually spacious rancher with grey stone walls—made that comfort even smaller (especially comparing their house to my shitty apartment).

Even so, I swallowed my shock long enough to ring the doorbell. I even refrained from commenting about how the house had one of those fancy doorbells that played a little song when it rang. In fact, I managed to keep myself from saying anything outlandish until Rose left me and Dave to ourselves in his room—which, might I add, was furnished with enough musical gadgets to qualify as a small synthetic symphony.

At that point, however, I couldn’t hold it in any more. “Holy fucking _shit_ ,” I blurted, “Where the fuck did all this money come from!?”

Dave, who was propped up atop a modern-style double bed, shrugged. “Rose does a lot of expensive doctor things,” he said, offering a nonchalant wave of his hand to supplement his words, “I don’t know. I don’t have half as much money. I’ll have none by the time I finish paying for this bullshit.”

I nodded and took a quick look around.

The walls were adorned with random photos of pretty much anything—all the old type of Polaroid printouts. A few jars stacked at the foot of his bed seemed to contain pickled dead things—one bird, one rat, and what appeared to be a tarantula. I ignored these, though, as my gaze wandered up the bed and over Dave.

He was clearly improving. The cast on his leg had come off (doctors had simply replaced his completely fucked over knee with an artificial one) and he was already walking around some. Aside from that, the tube in his chest had been removed, though he was still on temporary oxygen—a fact he vented about frequently in his texts. Still, he was in considerably high spirits.

When he saw me, he greeted me with a wide grin. He spoke before I could even think of what to say. “Nice of you to finally drop in and make sure I haven’t kicked the bucket. It’s only been… what? Two weeks?” he snickered.

I brushed off this comment with a simple “whatever” and took a seat at the end of the bed. Unlike the beds at my place, this one was long enough for me to sit down on without crushing Dave’s feet. (Of course, that might have been because Dave actually had an adult sized bed. Kankri and I used recycled children’s beds.) “So,” I asked, “What’s up with the dead shit on your floor? I can comprehend being messy, but having things that are literally fucking dead on your goddamn floor is a bit much.”

Dave laughed at my commentary. “Very funny, smartass,” he countered, “But at least I don’t keep romantic comedies in my moldy crawlspace.”

“Correction,” I chimed in, “There actually wasn’t any mold. It was one clusterfuck of a misunderstanding.”

“Yeah, right,” he snickered. “Anyhow, I need to go for a walk. Doctors said I should probably be doing at least an hour within the next two weeks, but I ain’t doing that much today.”

I nodded. “So, are you implying that you want me to accompany your sorry old ass on this hypothetical walk?”

A wry grin spread across Dave’s face. “Well aren’t you just the most observant person I’ve ever met,” he commented as he edged to the corner of his bed. “That would be darlin’ of you.”

“Fuck off, would you? I’m trying to be a decent human being here. That’s more than even the most forgiving deity could ever say about you,” was my playful response.

His response was to flick me off before pointing at a cherry red forearm crutch that was crudely shoved between the slats of his headboard. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll talk it over when I get to the pearly gates,” he chided lightheartedly, “Now, get me that thing so I can actually get some exercise in before you kill me with your shitty commentary.”

Naturally, I obliged. I grabbed the crutch and tossed it to him.

He caught it with his free hand and planted it firmly on the ground beside his bed. Then, seeing as his arm was still locked in a plaster cast, he somehow managed to balance himself out by leaning his elbow against the footboard of the bed. From there, he took the short drop to the floor and landed with a quiet huff of discomfort. (His expression, however, didn’t change a bit.)

The way he held himself made him look like he was either high off his ass with pain pills or just really damned cocky. In retrospect, I believe it was a combination of both. Even so, I witnessed his tough façade crumble for the first time when he leaned some tentative weight onto his left leg. It wasn’t a very huge crack, though—he bit his lip and uttered an obscenity; that was all. No, the real crack in his usual tough cool kid façade came when he refused to look at me and muttered under his breath, “Okay. Bad idea. Can you maybe… Be a darlin’ little shit and let me lean on your shoulder. I mean… You’re short enough.”

He undercut the admission with a last minute joke, sure. I noticed that even then. But, still, I knew enough then to know that Dave only dropped his act for the people he felt the most comfortable around. As shitty as it was that he was in pain, there was a small part of me that that felt special. After all, I _was_ one of the few people Dave actually showed his more human side to.

And, again, I agreed. I let Dave drape his broken arm around my shoulders and, really, it wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. He didn’t seem to lean that much weight on me. I was well aware that that was partially due to stubborn pride, of course, but I also noted that he was gripping the crutch tightly enough to make his knuckles turn a paler white than they already were by default. I didn’t bring that up, though. Nor did I point out that his left foot dragged across the floor on occasions. (The latter observation wasn’t all that surprising. Although he hated to admit it, John informed me that he’d had some damage to his lower spine.)

Aside from the fact that it would’ve been rude for me to point out such imperfections, I only had that brief passing moment to consider them as I grabbed his tank of oxygen on the way out. Once we started moving, those thoughts were quickly replaced with something more important. And that something, for some reason, was how he smelled—of dusty vinyl record stores and tobacco smoke. It hit me like a brick. And, for some reason, I loved it. I couldn’t get enough of it. Whenever I could, I breathed it in as much as I could.

And, trust me, we stopped a lot. The pattern of the walk was pretty much set in stone. He’d take about five steps, stop, and catch his breath. That’s when I’d take my chance. Now, considering that it took a few hundred steps to where Dave wanted to go—a two-seater stone bench parked neatly in front of a fish pond—that was a hell of a lot of smelling. And, somehow, I never got tired of it.

When we sat down, the same scent only got stronger as he leaned more weight against me. By now, he was almost breathless. His entire body seemed to be trembling. Still, he managed to offer me a crooked grin when he noticed me looking at him. “Okay,” he mumbled in between gulps of air, “That was a really shitty idea.”

To that, I couldn’t help but smile. “Rose told you it would be on the way out, you know,” I pointed out.

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Whatever. Let’s all kick Dave Strider while he’s down. Ha. Isn’t this fun, children?” he grumbles. Despite his tone, the smirk on his face belays the lack of sincerity behind the statement.

I decided to play along. “Well, kicking people is always fun. But people tend to kick back. If you offset that by waiting until they’re down, you get all the fun with none of the work.”

He responded with a quiet chuckle.

After that, there was mutual silence; and, for a while, we just sat there. Neither of us spoke. And, in that comfortable silence, time didn’t really matter. By the time he was ready to get back inside, the afternoon sky had given way to a vivid orange sunset. At some point on the walk back, I commented to him about that sunset. I’m not sure what I said, but he managed to get in some shitty joke about the sky being the color of piss in some areas. Aside from that, though, the comfortable silence remained as I led him back inside and helped him back into bed. Only then—as I was leaving—did we break that silence with some brief goodbyes.

* * *

 

When I got back home, I wasn’t at all surprised to find Kankri standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. What did surprise me, though, was a smug grin spread across his face. “A little bird told me you’ve got yourself a boyfriend,” he sneered.

I responded with a disdainful growl. “Fuck off, Kankri,” I said as I shoved him aside, “None of your fucking business.”

“It sort of is,” Kankri mumbles.

Though my back was to him, I rolled my eyes. “Whatever.”

With that said, I slammed the door to my room shut.


	3. The Invention of Unintended Week-Long Sleepovers

After that, it was another four days before I saw him again.

The day after we met—that Thursday—he was slotted for a checkup. He was also slotted to check in with his physical therapist on Saturday, which meant that he’d probably spend Sunday knocked out in bed. Still, I’d devoted that Friday to helping Kankri get rid of the hornets that roosted in the apartment walls every summer. As much as I loved being around Dave, not being stung to hell and back by pissed off squatter hornets was and still is a pretty high priority.

The day that I finally did get to visit him, however, was hot as fucking hell. I mean, that’s not exactly surprising. It was the middle of the summer; but, still, the whole 100 degrees in the shade business with humidity was a bit much. Unfortunately, the heat also meant I had to spend the little money I’d managed to save up on a taxi ride—I sure as hell wasn’t biking to Dave’s that day.

By the time I arrived, John was already there, too. I could tell because only that fucker would drive a sky blue Smart Car with his own goddamn name as the license plate. Aside from that, the blinds in the living room were open and I could see him talking to Dave. Not that it really bothered me. In fact, it occurred to me then that I hadn’t actually seen John in a while; having a chat with him and Dave at the same time would knock out two social checklists in one day.

Of course, with my luck, John came waltzing right out the door as I went to ring the bell. And, yes, of course he mentioned that we needed to hang out (because luck just really fucking hates me). Then, he offered me one of his trademark corny grins before scurrying off to his car. Presumably, he was going to go work his shift at the local grocery store. Honestly, I could really care less what he did when I wasn’t around; for all I knew, he was skipping work to go pet ferrets at the pet store.

Not that it all really mattered much anyhow. It was just another change of plan. Besides, I had really come to hang out with Dave, right?

“Dammit, John, can you close the fucking door?”

Okay. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to be there that day, but I kept going anyhow. I’d be damned if I wasted my last twenty dollars on a taxi back home without so much as seeing him. So, undeterred, I stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind me. (I noted then that it was one of those fancy doors that locked automatically when it closed. Presumably, one or both members of the Strider/Lalonde household really enjoyed their privacy.)

As the door clicked shut, Dave finally seemed to notice me from his spot on the sofa. For a brief moment, his cheeks turned a surprisingly vibrant shade of pink. He was quick to stifle that with his usual cool kid attitude, though—something that, given the fact that he was twenty goddamn years old, was more than a bit immature of him. “Oh,” he mumbled. “Hey, man. Sorry about that. I thought John was being a dickhead again and forgot to close the door.”

I shrugged off the apology. I didn’t really think he needed to be apologizing for an honest mistake, anyhow. Aside from that, my mind was preoccupied by an observation that slipped out of my mouth faster than drool dribbling from a baby. “You look fucking terrible, Dave.”

And, yes, it was really rude for me to point out to a guy who was t-boned in his car five six weeks ago that he looked terrible, but it was the truth. He didn’t seem to have put any real effort into looking presentable. His neatly styled hair was, at that point, a mess of tangled white. His shades were set on the coffee table, too, so he seemed to wince at every mild change in lighting. As far as his injuries went, he looked only slightly better. The majority of the cast on his arm had been removed, but his wrist was shoved into an uncomfortable-looking brace. A similar plastic brace was strapped around his left ankle.

As much as I hated hearing it, his reply didn’t really surprise me.

“Thanks. I feel just as great as I look,” he grumbled.

I sighed and absentmindedly folded my arms across my chest. “So, you want me to leave?”

A look of panic flashed briefly across his face before he replied in his usual deadpan voice, “No. You’re fine.” Here, he paused. He grabbed onto the back of the sofa and heaved himself into an upright position, opening a space for me to sit. Then, in the same deadpan voice, he explained, “Rose left Sunday for a few nights. Some sort of important psychobabble shit to attend to.”

“What, she trusted you not to burn down her house?” I inquired.

Dave seemed to like that joke. He cracked a weary grin, at the very least. “No, I’m not that bad at housekeeping. Besides, John’s coming twice a day to make sure I haven’t just dropped dead.”

I mulled the idea over in my head. John had a job, so I knew he wasn’t around much. Presumably, Dave had been alone for a while. Aside from John, he didn’t really have anyone else to talk to. More concerning, however, was the fact nagging me in the back of my mind. “And if you need something?”

Dave shrugged. He propped his left foot up on the coffee table and leaned forward to take off the plastic brace. Once it was unhooked, he tossed it aside, leaving his foot to drop limply against the table. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “You got a better plan, darlin’?”

“I can stay here.” It was out of my mouth before I even thought of saying it, I couldn’t take it back and, really, I didn’t want to take it back.

“Rose isn’t coming back until the end of the week, you know,” Dave pointed out.

“I have a lot of free time,” I lied.

He nodded slowly. His gaze met mine briefly before he shrugged and said, “Yeah, sure. Thanks. Don’t you need to have clothes and shit ready, though?”

“I’ll call my brother. He’ll drop them off in a while. No fucking problem.” Another lie.

But, Dave fell for it. He shrugged again, mumbled “cool” under his breath, and snagged a picture off of the table to his left. He handed it to me with a bittersweet smile and a quiet explanation. “That fucker in the hat was my brother.” He glosses over the past tense, and I don’t press him about it. It’s not my place to shove my nose into his life.

So, instead, I look at the picture. The man was wearing ridiculous triangular sunglasses that seemed to be pushed down to the middle of his nose by the grey cap he’s also wearing. Blond-brown stubble dotted his chin and a wry grin almost exactly like Dave’s was spread across his face. His arms were folded confidently across his chest, revealing that he was wearing black fingerless gloves. All in all, he seemed to be pretty similar to Dave. Even his attitude—a sort of mild hubris tinged with hints of self-deprecating humor—seemed to be pretty close.

After some careful thought, I formulated my response. “I could see you looking a lot like him in the future. I mean… Like an even bigger self-inflated airhead than you already fucking are.”

Dave nodded. He took the picture back and gazed at it briefly before setting it aside. “Yeah…” he mumbled. “You might want to call your brother, you know.”

“Oh. Shit. Yeah, I’ll be right back,” I muttered.

As levelheaded as I tried to seem at that moment, my heart had actually dropped into my stomach. It was flopping around in all the toxic acids therein, too. For one thing, Kankri would be more than a little pissed that I decided to jump ship for a whole week. Aside from that, he wasn’t exactly the best person to have talking to someone who’s just getting used to life after being hit by a speeding car. By that, I mean to say he was always a bit too blunt for most people’s liking. He meant well, though—everyone who knew him knew that much—but, Dave didn’t know.

Still, there wasn’t much else I could do. I needed fresh clothes and my toothbrush if I was going to be staying there for a week.

* * *

 

It only took fifteen minutes of nervous waiting for Kankri to show up.

The entire time, I watched out the window for his car. As soon as I saw it, I jumped up and rushed to the door. When I opened it, I hoped to take my things and then hurry him out of the house. But, seeing as fate has a fetishistic hatred of my existence, he insisted on coming inside to make sure I was staying somewhere safe.

(Much like me, he was pretty floored by the expense of the entire place. I took that brief silence as a gift from a forgiving Mother Nature, because Kankri being wordless was a woefully rare event.)

After he finished looking at the house and admiring it, he did exactly what I hoped he wouldn’t. He waltzed right on up to Dave and offered his usual diplomat smile. “Dave Strider, I presume?” As he said this, he offered Dave a handshake.

Probably because no one really know what the fuck to do with Kankri when they first meet him, Dave hesitantly returned the shake. “Um… Yeah? You’re Karkat’s brother?”

“ _Older_ brother,” corrected Kankri. “Name’s Kankri Vantas. Nice to finally meet the kid my brother’s been hanging around with.”

“Yeah…?” Dave mumbled.

“Exactly. Oh. Wait. Karkat mentioned something about your hearing. Should I talk louder?”

“Please don’t,” Dave grumbled.

“No, that’s perfectly fine if you need me to,” insisted Kankri.

“Thanks, but no.”

“You can leave, now, Kankri,” I interjected.

“Oh. Yeah. Nice meeting you, Dave,” Kankri mumbled. I could tell by his tone that he wasn’t too happy with me kicking him out. On the flip side, I wasn’t too happy with him harassing Dave.

So, I showed him to the door and slammed it shut as soon as he stepped over the threshold.

This was promptly followed by Dave’s inquiry. “Who the fucking shit was that pompous shit?”

“You really don’t want to know,” I mumbled.

Dave seemed to agree with this statement. Though we spent a good portion of the rest of the day talking, he never brought up the topic of Kankri. And, as far as I was concerned, that was a win for both of us.

 

Over the next few days, I came to gradually learn more about him. I started to feel like I was some small part of his life. Aside from that, I started to notice oddly charming little habits he had.

For one thing, it didn’t take me long to realize that he scratched the back of his next whenever he was lying. But, then, there were these endearing little things… Whenever he smiled, it was always a little lopsided. Whenever he spoke about something he was truly interested in, his southern accent—by then, I had pinpointed it as being Texan—was at its strongest.

In a way, I got to know more about his life. And the more I learned, the more interesting he became.


	4. The Unfortunate Knot of Fate

The first Thursday of August. Also, the first actual day of August. That was the day that Dave officially found his way into my life—when, to be stupidly poetic, our paths crossed. To be less poetic, our paths were then officially tangled up enough to knot both of our dim-witted asses together forever, I suppose.

Enough of the sappy bullshit, though.

The day started normally enough. I helped Dave up (and by that I mean I woke him up repeatedly until he got his sorry ass out of bed) and went over his schedule for the day. On that particular day, he had only one thing on his list: physical therapy. 11:00. Fortunately for me, I didn’t have to actually take him anywhere. Rose had managed to find someone who came to the house. (I could only assume how expensive it was, but it made things a lot easier, so I didn’t complain.)

Somehow, it turned out that the therapist was sort of related to John. At the very least, I’d seen her before. Her name was Jade Harley, and she was a bundle of positive energy that tottered precariously on the edge of being overbearingly cheerful. She was also extremely punctual; the doorbell rang as soon as the clock struck eleven o’clock.

When she entered the room, it was obvious that she still had the same go-getter personality that she had when I first met her a few years prior. In the same way, she seemed as eccentric as ever, too. “Nice to see you again, Dave,” was her greeting. As she spoke, she pulled a few colored rubber bands off of her fingers and shoved them in her pocket. Then, she turned to me for a minute. “Fancy meeting you here, Karkat.”

“Yeah,” I muttered.

She flashed me another of those almost sickeningly sweet grins before turning her attentions back to Dave. "So,” she began, “I see you already ditched the brace?”

“It didn’t do much,” Dave mumbled.

“Great. So, you do know you need to ditch the glasses, too, right?” Jade inquired.

At this, Dave let forth a loud sigh. He pulled off his usual shades and fished a beaten up leather glasses case from his pocket. From that, he pried a pair of thick rectangular frame glasses that seemed to be held together with a few strategic pieces of tape.

With those on instead of his usual shades, he seemed less intimidating and far more approachable. In fact, now that I could see his eyes without those bulky shades in the way, he looked kind of attractive. I’d never admit that, of course. That would be inflating his already inflated head to the point of critical mass. So, instead, I preoccupied myself with making sure Dave was okay.

Seeing as I was sitting next to him on the sofa, the natural thing to do would’ve been to provide occasional reassurance. Instead, I instinctively grabbed his hand in mine and kept my gaze locked straight ahead. Out of the corner of my eye, though, I could see a faint hint of a smile crossing Dave’s face.

By then, Jade was casually sitting on the coffee table with her legs crossed. Dave’s left foot was propped up on her lap. I knew it wasn’t really my place to be observing what was going on, but I couldn’t really help it. I had nothing else to do and Dave had made me promise that I’d stay in the room. (His excuse was that he thought Jade was a spy sent to steal his musical secrets. Really, though, I’m pretty sure he just needed someone other than Rose to sit with him.)

So, I ended up awkwardly watching as Dave went through a series of routine stretches and tests. From time to time, Jade would stop and ask Dave a series of questions.

“Anything new lately?” That seemed to be her favorite one. I could only assume it was meant to distract Dave from the fact that she was doing something. At the very least, that’s what she seemed to be using that question for, because I never figured out its relevance otherwise. All the other questions were pretty straightforward.

Could he feel her poking a pen tip against certain parts of his leg? (The answer to that was confusingly variable. For his lower leg, it was a flat negative. As Jade worked up towards his hip, though, the answers got a bit spotty.) Was he taking his medication? (Seeing as he still needed pain medication, the answer was a confident yes. I could confirm, too, because John told me of a neat little trick to make sure Dave wasn’t dodging things he didn’t think he needed to take. Apparently, Dave wasn’t all that great at memorizing which pill went to what, so all I really had to do was get enough out of the bottles and on the table before he knew what they were.) Any new problems? (No.)

The questions seemed to go on forever.

Eventually, though, she stopped and handed Dave his shoe back. She said something about needing to get equipment and rushed outside. She was gone long enough for Dave to finally pull his hand from my grip and get his shoe back on. By the time he was finished tying it, though, Jade had finished making what was essentially two metal support bars standing parallel to one another.

Dave spoke his mind before I could even process the events in mine. “You’re not expecting me to use that thing, are you?” he sneered.

“The sooner you do, the sooner I leave,” Jade responded with a wide grin. Obviously, she knew how to motivate. Aside from that, she’d already shoved the coffee table out of the way and had the bars set up in front of Dave. “I assume you know what to do from here?”

Dave nodded. He glanced briefly at me before grabbing onto the bars and heaving himself to his feet. Again, I noticed the same pattern as before. His left side was considerably weaker than his right. For the first time, I also noticed that his left hand edged more towards resting on the bar rather than grabbing it. Aside from that, though, he seemed pretty sure on his feet.

Once she told him to actually start moving, though, the smug air that was usually about him dropped. “That wasn’t part of the schedule today,” was his initial protest.

“Even better reason to try,” Jade countered.

“Ask Karkat. I managed to get all the way outside and to the back of the house a few days ago. This really isn’t necessary,” he insisted.

“It’s part of the evaluation.” Every time she returned with an answer, Jade offered an oddly reassuring smile. Though it was certainly aimed at Dave, some of the infectious optimism beneath the grin managed to rub off on me. Honestly, I’m sure that was part of her plan, though.

“Look, it’s late and I’m tired,” Dave continued. By now, he was just grabbing at any excuse he could think of. It wasn’t hard to figure that much out.

“I’m sure everyone here is tired. This isn’t an easy job,” Jade reassured him.

Dave sighed. Presumably at the end of the road as far as logical excuses went, he had no real choice but to give in. Before he did, though, he did something I didn’t expect. He turned around so that he was facing me and offered me a sort of apologetic smile. “Look,” he muttered, “Thanks for all this help and shit but… I’d rather you not be here for this much. Can you… Maybe?”

I didn’t hesitate to agree. I nodded silently and wandered off into his room.

* * *

I guess at some point I fell asleep, because Jade had to wake me up to tell me she was leaving. Around then, the digital bedside clock notified me that it was some time after 4:00. That wasn’t really a problem, though. Really, I was so tired that her impossibly optimistic babble about recovery didn’t really make it past the point where I began trying to figure out what she meant. Her warning to give Dave some space, though, managed to register in my groggy mind.

So, for the rest of the day, I heeded that warning. Just looking at him, I could tell he wasn’t in the mood for talking.

I spent the rest of the night alone. I prepared dinner—macaroni and cheese, as prescribed by John—and got him settled in bed before claiming my spot on the floor.


	5. On the Topic of Stunts and Motorcycles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look, it's summer and no one wants to hire me at the moment so i don't have a lot to do here. not my fault. also, i have no idea how the fuck this chapter even got started but have it anyhow.

After Thursday’s debacle, I somehow ended up finding myself stuck in Dave Strider’s massive clusterfuck of a life. For some reason, he decided that I was his new personal safety buddy—like the kind elementary school kids have on field trips. The difference was that we never left the house. By that Friday, however, it dawned upon me that I had to choose between going back home and staying with Dave; because, if the past few weeks had taught me anything, they’d taught me I couldn’t really balance both.

So, on Saturday, I called Kankri to ask him to bring over a larger portion of my stuff. Mostly, that meant my blankets and that really ugly unicorn pillow pet that my father sent me for my birthday. (I never really figured out why he chose that, seeing as I’d requested a new pair of jeans, but I guess it’s the thought that counts.) By that afternoon, he’d dropped most of the shit off and we had a pretty nonchalant parting.

We really weren’t all that close. I only lived with him because our Dad was more than a tiny bit eccentric to the point that we all agreed that he really shouldn’t be taking care of kids. I mean, he was a nice guy and all, but a house filled with tanks full of varying species of crabs isn’t exactly where a kid should spend their formative years. The fact that he decided to ditch the house and live the rest of his life in a prolonged episode of Deadliest Catch didn’t really help, either.

That’s all a different story, though. A very long, long story.

Anyhow, back to the actual topic.

That Saturday night, I officially moved in. They had a free guest room, but I didn’t really like the feel of it. Aside from the fact that it smelled like mothballs and cigarette smoke for some reason (notably, the only room that smelled of smoke was Dave’s and no other room in the place smelled like mothballs), there was this creepy-ass portrait of an old woman at the foot of the bed. According to Dave, the person they bought the house from told them not to even think about moving the horrifyingly decayed image. So, no, I sure as hell wasn’t putting my ass in the middle of the next odd January-release horror film.

Instead, I set myself up in Dave’s room. He cleared away a spot behind the turntables for my bed. He even offered a mattress, but I didn’t take it. (If the mattress came from that crazy ghost bitch’s room, I wouldn’t even take it if I had to choose between it and getting dropped in lava.) Besides, I was sort of used to sleeping on floors. Kankri and I never really had enough money to afford actual mattresses, anyhow.

As for my clothes, Dave repurposed the turntable for them, too. He emptied the two compartments beneath them of their former contents (a lot of weird vinyl records, mostly) and let me keep my shitty trash in there.

Really, it went over a lot smoother than I thought it would.

It also turned out to be pretty damn convenient for Dave, too, because Rose called on Saturday to say that she wouldn’t be home for another week.

Dave had informed her then of the situation, noting that she seemed pretty pleased about the arrangement. He also said something to me about her meeting other women on business trips a lot. I didn’t really pay much attention to the last bit, though.

* * *

 

 

That Sunday, Dave talked me into following him into the garage. For some shitty reason, I decided to listen to him. So, that’s how Sunday started off—in a dusty garage with a smug-looking asshole leaning over a black Harley-Davidson motorcycle with vibrant red flames plastered on it like stickers from a five year old’s art project.

“Ain’t it just the coolest shit you’ve ever seen, man?” he said as he awkwardly dropped onto the shining leather seat. That’s all he said. And he said it with one of those big, shitty grins plastered across his face.

Honestly, though, I didn’t really give a damn. I wasn’t big on the whole appeal of motorcycles. For all I cared, I could drive half a Honda Civic down the highway as long as it got me where I needed to go. Vehicles were vehicles. Still, he seemed so proud of his shitty little glorified moped that I couldn’t exactly shit all over it. “Yeah… I mean… It’s pretty cool.” (I never mentioned to him that the red flames looked like the type of shit a twelve-year-old kid would put on their _Need for Speed_ car, though. I kind of wanted to, but I didn’t.)

Somehow, my act fooled him—or, maybe, he was just hell bent on showing off that bike—because he fell for it. And after he fell for it, things went absolutely batshit. It didn’t even start off reasonably. No, Dave just jumped straight into what I could only assume was a harebrained scheme he’d been hatching for some time that Rose wasn’t around. “You want to ride it?”

“I can’t drive a car,” I pointed out, trying to be as gentle as possible with him. Obviously, he loved this… whatever the fuck it was, and I wasn’t about to shit on his dreams. “How do you expect me to know how to drive a fucking motorcycle?”

“I don’t,” he admitted. By now, a wild grin was spread across his face. “I just need for you to work the accelerator, darlin’.”

“That sounds like a fucking terrible plan.”

“No,” Dave insisted, manually scooting the bike back with his one good leg until I was in his arm’s reach. Then, without any further notice, he grabbed me and sat me down behind him on the death scooter Hot Wheels abomination. “You sit there, do the accelerator, and I’ll handle the bike.”

“Didn’t you just get out of the hospital for massive vehicular-induced injuries!?” I practically screeched.

At that point, he offered me an oddly reassuring grin. “We won’t actually be on the road. That’d be a shitty idea. I just want to show you around the neighborhood. That’s all.”

I sighed. On one hand, it seemed like it might be fun. Aside from that, I controlled the speed, so we weren’t going to be going anywhere over ten to fifteen miles per hour. He’d be driving, after all. At the time, it seemed like a great idea. “Yeah. Fine. Fuck it. Let’s go on this shitty death wish of yours, you Paleolithic-minded bastard.”

“Great.” At that point, he gently kicked my right leg so that it rested against one of the chrome footrests and pointed out the accelerator. “You can reach?”

I positioned my foot on it before a thought occurred to me. Somehow, I could still reach around him. I’m guessing this wasn’t exactly motorcycle safety 101, though. “So, what’re we doing with your leg if you’re not using it for this?”

Dave shrugged. “I just assumed you’d let me use yours as a pocket. Just keep those calves nice and tight and we’re all good.” With that said, he managed to work his left leg so that it was held in place by my mine. To anyone driving past us, I’m pretty sure it looked outlandish. One person was driving and seemingly spooning the passenger, who, for some fucking reason, was the one accelerating. Not that it really mattered, though.

He’d already scooted us both backwards out of the garage, anyhow. Clearly, he had his heart set on this absolutely insane stunt. Who was I to stop him? All I could do was try and keep him from going at some sort of otherworldly speed.

“So what do I do with…?”

Before I could finish, he interrupted. “It’s just like a car. Sort of. Not really. Just kick that little knob there down and up when I tell you do, darlin’. And just hang on to my hips.”

“I’d really rather you not use that name right now…” I mumbled. By now, the sheer insanity of the entire idea was starting to hit me. I was about to ride a motorcycle. And I was about to ride one with one of the most ridiculously, patently batshit people I’d ever known.

All the while, Dave had been fiddling with one of the handles. By the time the thoughts had finished rushing through my mind, he nudged me forward. “Down, then back up.”

I sighed and obliged. The only other way for me to get out of this was to manually drag the bike and the bastard on it back into the garage, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize how shitty that’d be after I accepted the offer. (Albeit, I accepted with a very heavy dose of sarcasm, but there was some true sincerity there, too.) What I didn’t expect was the sudden movement forward. Really, the only thing stopping me from falling off then was Dave.

“New road meat, aren’t you?” he laughed.

I managed to get myself back into a reasonably comfortable position before replying, “Yeah, says the guy who almost got turned into goddamn road meat a few weeks ago.”

“That’s pretty cool. Road meat is cool. Cheap, too. Down and up,” he continued.

“What the fuck is that doing?”

“You’ll see. Down and up.”

Again, I made the mistake of trusting him. I did as he told me, and the bike lurched forward again. We were moving faster. For the first time since we’d started, I dared to take a peek at where we were headed. I instantly regretted that decision as I noticed that we were essentially hurdling down a suburban neighborhood street. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“I know, right? It’s fucking fantastic,” Dave yelled. (Clearly, he wasn’t deterred at all by the concept of death. If anything, he was one of those outrageous dunderheads who pulled off shit like this for fun.) “Oh, hey, ten points if I hit the kid.”

“What!?” I glanced forward and, sure enough, we were rapidly approaching a kid running into the street to retrieve a ball. “FUCK.”

Dave shrugged. He even had the audacity to smile and wave at the awestruck child. The evasive turn was taken so sharply to the right that his jeans were just a hair’s width away from the pavement.

“What the fuck are you doing!?” I stammered as we somehow returned to a normal upright position. “What the actual fuck are you doing!?”

“Oh, yeah, I never did tell you what my job was, did I?” Dave cackled. “Motorcycle stuntman Dave Strider. Well… former stuntman, I guess,” he shrugged and launched us into another terrifyingly sharp turn—this time to the left. “Down then up.”

“NO!” I yelled.

“Aw, c’mon,” he goaded. “I did this shit for a living for two whole years. It’s not that bad.”

“It’s fucking terrifying,” I protested.

He shrugged and nudged me enough to make my foot hit the gear shift the way he wanted it to. “Oops. Well. Accidents happen, don’t they?”

I sighed and kicked the shift back up to neutral—a reaction meant to save my own foot from the pavement rather than actually work the bike. By then, I was three parts terrified and one part amused by the outlandish stupidity of the entire situation. “You’re going to get us fucking killed.”

Another wild laugh. In the rearview mirror of a speeding death bike, I saw Dave’s first genuine, unabashed smile. And holy shit was it beautiful. In fact, for a good while, I managed to forget that I was hurdling down a road completely unprotected atop a motorcycle.

Of course, the fucker just had to remind me of that. “Up, down. C’mon. You finally pass out on me or something?”

I shook myself back to reality and did what he said. To my surprise, the bike started slowing down.

“Great. I didn’t actually give you a heart attack. That’s nice to know,” he mumbled.

I nodded.

“Same thing. Up then down.”

The bike slowed a little more. Dave pulled us back up to the garage.

“You did pretty good,” he reassured me, leaning over to do the last gear switch himself. “I wouldn’t be recruiting you for the next globe of death at the state fair, but you’d do okay on the road.” He shrugged.

I nodded slowly.

He responded with a muffled laugh. “Look, it wasn’t that bad, was it?”

Now that I wasn’t actually in the very real grips of possible death, I took a moment to evaluate myself. My heart was pounding. My palms were sweating. An odd sort of energy bubbled within me, though it was slowly fading. “No…” I admitted. “Not really.” With that said, though, I got the hell off of that thing. If he wanted to go try and turn himself into pavement pulp again that was fine by me. I wasn’t about to do that sort of shit again, though.

“Okay. Fine. It’s not for everyone.” He shrugged and swung his leg over so that he could drop off the left side of the bike. In an odd sort of way, it looked like he was dismounting from a horse. Except this particular horse went up to one hundred fifty and it could fucking pulverize you in seconds. So, yeah, nothing like a horse.

“No. It’s really not.”

He shrugged and snagged what had then grown to be a pair of gaudy bright red crutches from where he’d propped them against a nearby box. “Yeah. Sorry ‘bout that, darlin’.”

“Darling my ass,” I grumbled.

He laughed as he pushed himself into a somewhat uncertain standing position. “Well, you still have your ass, so that’s good, right?”

“I’m pretty sure you traumatized that child,” I noted.

He shrugged and took a few awkward steps towards the door before stopping to hit the button that closed the garage door. “Nah, that kid’s one of those wild little shits. He volunteered to be in the globe of death last year at the fair. He doesn’t give a single shit.”

“Right,” I muttered. “Whatever. That was too much excitement for you, gramps, it’s time to go to bed.”

“I’m only two years older than you,” he huffed.

“That’s very nice, gramps. Let’s talk about all your wonderful motorcycle stories as we get you into bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please don't emulate this because i'm pretty sure this is one way to get yourself pulverized on a freeway. dave is a little shit and should not be held as a role model in any way, shape, or form when it comes to making safe and responsible decisions. this has been a psa.


	6. Social Grace Isn't A Specialty

On Monday, a bunch of shit basically hit the fan. And by “a bunch,” I mean so, so much shit.

Around 4:00 in the morning, Dave woke me up complaining of “really not just a little” (as described by him) leg pain. This resulted in a taxi ride to the hospital. Upon arrival, though, we were informed that there was a bus crash and we were kind of low priority in retrospect. So, it was 7:00 in the morning before anyone even bothered to check on Dave. And, after all that, we were sent home with a wad of painkiller prescriptions, a new wheelchair, and strongly worded recommendations from doctors that we use the former. “On the bright side,” (as one of the doctors put it), we didn’t need to oxygen tank any more—I don’t know which doctor it was who said that, but I deemed him the batshit doctor.

If I understood the not-batshit doctor’s rapid medical babbling, though, the pain was always there. It just hadn’t had a chance to manifest itself due to shock. At that point, though, the shock had worn off and the pain had set in. It was also explained that involuntary muscle movements could also occur. Oh, and, surprise! Both are probably chronic.

Naturally, the diagnosis didn’t lighten Dave’s mood at all. The rest of that day was spent in uncomfortable silence.

After that, Tuesday got a pretty similar start. Around 5:00 or 6:00 in the morning, Dave woke me with a few well-placed jabs with his crutch. He complained again of pain and muscle spasms. I gave him the recommended medication and he went back to sleep for a while.

And, so, these events led up until 11:00, when things—as they usually do with him—went whatever way he damned well wanted them to go. In this instance, the direction he wanted to go was some sort of nearby hideout place he wanted to show me. “It’s this sort of hole-in-the-wall place that no one really gives a damn about any more, you know? I used to hang out around there when I was younger,” he explained. “It’s really nice this time of year, too. Just follow my directions.”

“Last time I did that, you ended up duping me into an impromptu motorcycle death race,” I pointed out.

Dave shrugged and shifted his position on the sofa. “Yeah,” he sighed, “But I promise this one is pretty cool. Just trust me.”

Seeing as he wasn’t going to be doing any more motorcycle shit anytime soon, I decided to agree. “Yeah. Okay. And you’re not going to tell me you’re expecting to make it the entire way on crutches, are you?” I pointed out.

“No,” he agreed. “I’ll take the chair. I need to get it updated some time, though, it’s pretty boring to look at, don’t you think?”

I sighed and grabbed it from where we’d left it after coming home on Monday. After a bit of thoughtful (or, rather, strategically random) work, I managed to get it open. With that done, I dragged it over to the sofa. “Okay, so, where are we going and do—?”

I was going to ask if he needed help. He answered that by balancing himself between the sofa and chair long enough for him to position himself and get the other hand on one of the armrests. Then, with an oddly charming but thoroughly smug grin, he dropped into the seat. (Not the most technically correct or safe way to do it, really; but, since when was anything Dave did safe or by the book?) “Well, if we’re going, we have to go outside, first.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” I grumbled. “So, what, you want help or not?”

Dave shrugged. To be completely honest, his next reply was so damned self-aware that it caught me off guard. “If you want to, yeah. It’ll be a while before my left arm’s back in shape, so that’s probably a good idea.”

In fact, I was shocked enough to comment on it. “You… Sure?”

“Yeah,” he said, offering another indifferent shrug. “I’m getting used to this shit. I mean, it’s not bothering me quite as much as it did. Now, get our asses going, would you?”

“What do you want me to—?”

“There are handles for a reason,” Dave sighed.

“Yeah,” I muttered, grabbing the handles. I began moving forward. “I guess so. Sorry. I guess I was just being a sensitive sack of shit.”

My commentary was met with a quiet laugh—more of a snicker, really. “You’re always a sensitive shit, to be honest.”

I could feel my cheeks heating up in response to the commentary. “Okay, fine. Yeah. I kind of deserve that…” I mumbled.

Another laugh. “Lighten up, darlin’, you’re taking things too personally. I mean…” We’d reached the end of the path to his house. Before I could ask which way to go, though, he nodded his head to the right. Then, without missing a beat, he continued, “It’s kind of nice to see someone so damned touchy, y’know?”

“Not really,” I shrugged.

He sighed. “I mean, I know Rose cares about me, but she’s not really the best emotional support. She’s all psychology and shit. Like…” Here, he paused. He took a quick look around before nodding to the left. “She means well, but hearing that you’re in denial isn’t very comforting. At least, I don’t think it is.”

“Doesn’t sound like it,” I agreed.

“Yeah. Anywho…” Again, he paused. By now, we were coming up to what seemed to be the edge of the neighborhood. At the very least, the street we were approaching didn’t have houses on the other side. Instead, it was a mostly empty field with a few randomly placed businesses. Even so, Dave somehow knew where we were. “Take a left. You’ll see it.”

“See what?” I grumbled. I’d followed his instructions, and all I could see was the entrance to a run-down and presumably forgotten little community garden. “Don’t tell me we’ve come out here for…”

“Hey, hey,” Dave interjected, “The old community garden is really cool. Just keep going.”

“What ever happened to please and thank you, you rude fuck?” I grumbled, trudging onwards as commanded.

“They’re irrelevant.”

For a few minutes, nothing else was said. I just kept going forward until we reached what I could only assume was the middle of the garden. There, settled in the center of a circle of benches, was a crumbling stone fountain. Vines tangled themselves in the cracks and holes, hiding the original form. Yet, for some reason, small bits of water seemed to spout upward every now and then. It certainly wasn’t flowing, though.

All in all, it was oddly serene. That’s all I could really say about it, though. “So… This?” I eventually muttered.

Dave shrugged. “Honestly, I just… I sort of just wanted to talk to you. One on one or man to man or whatever you want to call it,” he mumbled. His voice was uncharacteristically quiet and, in the middle of the overgrown garden, it seemed small. It blended in with the wind that whispered through the dead branches and decaying archways.

I noticed, too, that he’d tried to deflect the issue with humor. I’d already figured that pattern out, though; he used the same trick every time, after all. Still, I’d already come out here (even if it wasn’t really all that far), and I wasn’t about to walk (the whole one and a half blocks) back to Dave’s house. “Okay, then. What’s up?” I sighed, shoving my hands into my pockets.

Dave shrugged. Something was obviously on his mind. I knew that much.

“Hey,” he eventually mumbled, “You can sit down if you want. We’re not at a funeral, you know.”

I nodded and took a seat on the bench that Dave’s chair was parked closest to.

He, meanwhile, chewed thoughtfully on his lip. In this manner—with him deep in thought—I waited for a while. It wasn’t more than fifteen minutes, but it definitely wasn’t less than five. But, eventually, he managed to gather his wits about him and start talking. “Hey… Karkat?” he muttered. “Darlin’?”

“Do you call everyone that?” I asked. I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t bring myself to. But, still, I watched him out of the corner of my eye. And, in my peripheral vision, I noticed he, too, was staring straight ahead. So, apparently, neither of us had a lot of guts when it came to social pressure.

“No,” he responded with a nervous laugh. “Just the people I really like…”

I nodded. “Yeah?”

“Like… The people I think are worth sticking around with, y’know?” Dave sighed.

“I guess so,” I shrugged.

I guess Dave decided then that he wasn’t getting anywhere with the old conversation. He scrapped it and jumped to a different approach. “If…” he began, paused, took a deep breath. “Hypothetically, if I were to say I liked you…? Would you… I don’t know. Would you feel the same way?”

Finally, I risked looking at him. He still faced straight ahead, but his gaze was locked on me. His right foot tapped nervously against the ground, each beat like a clap of thunder in my mind. I didn’t really know what I was supposed to say, but I knew that if I opened my mouth, whatever I felt would come out. So, I risked it. “I guess I’d say that I sort of do,” is what I ended up saying. And, then, more. “I mean… If you’re asking, I… I hate to say it, but I guess I kind of care about your reckless, stupid ass.”

By the time I finished, he was looking straight at me. A wide grin was spread across his normally impassive features. That was the second true Strider smile I’d ever seen. And, just like the first, it was brilliant.


	7. Romance Novels 101

The rest of the week was pretty uneventful.

Jade visited on Thursday, gave Dave a new foot brace, and provided me with twelve backups. (“Just in case,” she’d said before running out the door.) Seeing as Dave didn’t like the idea itself and not the actual brace, though, he managed to “misplace” every single goddamn one. (I have to admit that he was dedicated to not dealing with that.)

Early Friday morning, Rose returned home. I quickly caught onto the fact that neither sibling (half sibling? I don’t fucking know—) really enjoyed trying to talk to the other. I guess they were just completely different personalities. Rose was more analytical; Dave was more… (Well, really, there’s no actual classification for him.)

Even so, she wasn’t at all terrible. She greeted me, gave me some sort of spiel about how she was happy Dave had found someone to be close to in such a trying time and all that jazz. Typical generic speech. After that, though, I rarely saw her. The last glimpse I caught of her before she presumably went to bed was as she set out dinner for me and Dave.

After dinner, the house seemed to go back to being as it had been before Rose showed up—just Dave and I. For a while, we hung out in the living room. I read a book while Dave at least tried to fake that he was skimming through a gaming magazine. (The ruse was pretty transparent, though, seeing as the magazine kept slipping and showing peeks of the romantic novel cover beneath. Aside from that, it was pretty obvious to me that one of my books was missing. I just never pointed it out to see what he’d try to do.)

Eventually, though, we grew tired of this and Dave somehow convinced me that it was totally cool to go outside to look at the stars. And that’s how, at 11:00 one Friday night, I found myself sprawled out on top of an old mattress cover with Dave, discussing pretty much whatever either of us thought about.

Whereas I chose to lie down, he opted to stay sitting up. His left leg was straight out, though his right was bent enough for him to use it as an armrest. He still had the shades on, too, which I found to be counterintuitive to the whole stargazing thing.

And, so, for once, I actually initiated the conversation. “Can you even fucking see the stars with those goddamn things on?”

He shrugged. In the gentle light which came through the window behind us, I could see an outline of a smug grin. “These things have my prescription, so, yeah, I can.”

“And don’t you have a pair of actual fucking glasses?” I pointed out.

“Yeah, but I look like Egbert in them. That’s just fucking weird.”

“Then I’ll take you shopping for new ones some time. You can’t walk around all the time in those shades, you know.”

He sighed. Against the night sky, I could faintly see his outline as he rummaged through his pocket. I knew what he was doing. It didn’t surprise me a bit when he pulled out a cigarette and started smoking. It still bothered me, though. Still, I wasn’t exactly in any position to tell him to stop; so, I just listened. “With the shades on, though, everything is just so comfortable. I mean…” He paused, puffed at his cigarette for a moment, and sighed forth a plume of smoke. “No one ever asks questions or looks at me funny when I have my shades on.”

I shrugged. “You look fine without them, you know. I mean… I don’t know.”

“Yeah,” Dave mumbled. Seeing as he was obviously uncomfortable with the current topic, his next move—to try and completely circumvent the situation—wasn’t a very big shock. “So, hey… Truth or dare?”

“Aren’t you twenty? You’re a little old for that bullshit, aren’t you? And we’re in the middle of fucking millionaire suburbia. Where the hell do we find something worthwhile to do with a dare besides maybe playing with some slimy organic mud?”

My response elicited a snort of laughter from Dave. “Fine,” he admitted, “What do you suggest we do, then, smartass?”

I responded with an amused huff. “Well, I don’t fucking know. This was your idea, jackass.”

“Well, your stupid book said that this was romantic,” Dave shrugged.

“Novels are fiction, you nitwit. They’re not meant to be goddamn self-help books,” I snickered.

“Well, then, I have a suggestion…”

“Yeah, and what would that be?”

By the dim red glow of his cigarette, I saw a sheepish grin creeping across his features. “You ever been kissed before?”

I couldn’t help but smirk. “No,” I shrugged.

“Well, then… You mind if I take the honor of being the first dumbass to do so?” he asked, his grin shifting into an uncertain sort of wavering half-smile. In an absentminded, casual way, he pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and ground it into the grass behind him. A plume of cigarette smoke escaped from his slightly parted lips.

“I’d like to see you—” I began. I was being a smartass. 500% honest, I was just being a massive asshole. So, really, I expected what was coming. And, really, I kind of enjoyed it. I liked the way he threw his arm around me and pulled me in by the front of my shirt. There was a sort of raw force to it—he wasn’t exactly being aggressive, but he wasn’t the most graceful, either.

In a way, it felt unscripted and crude. His kiss—the actual kiss—was surprisingly gentle. It wasn’t one of those weird face-sucking, lip-chewing spectacles I’d see in the hallways in school. Everything else, though—the way he ran his fingers through my tangled hair with one hand while he steadied himself with the other and how, halfway through the kiss, he opened his eyes to glance at me nervously—it was endearingly juvenile.

When he pulled away, I wanted more. But I bit my tongue. There was no way I’d let him know. It’d hang over my head for centuries if I did. So, instead, I bluffed. “Not too bad for a boorish asshole like you, Dave.” With that said, I fell back into my former position on the ground.

To this, he replied with one of his patently wry smirks. He dropped back so that he was propped up on his right elbow. “You know,” he muttered, “You weren’t too bad yourself, darlin’.”

I rolled my eyes at his commentary. “Great. So, what? You want an award or something?”

“I’d say you’re a pretty decent catch, really,” Dave snickered.

“Isn’t it past your bedtime, child?” I goaded.

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “Aren’t you still three years away from legally chugging some booze?”

“Okay, fine, fuck you.”

He opened his mouth to say something and paused briefly. He winced. “Yeah, fuck that guy. You know, Dave Strider? What an asshole,” he muttered, nodding towards the house to indicate that he was ready to go back inside.

“Yeah, totally,” I agreed, sitting up to let him lean his weight against my shoulder. “Don’t you just hate that guy?”

A quiet laugh. A flicker of one of those rare true smiles. “So much, you know?” he grumbled. By now, whatever was bothering him had stopped, though there was still a certain tiredness to his voice.

So, I kept going. I jammed my foot under the crutch and got enough traction to kick it up into my grasp. Then, I handed it to him. All the while, we continued our pointless argument. “And about those douchebag Ray-Bans he always has on,” I pointed out.

“Oh, yeah, those things are so last year,” he countered.

And, with this random banter bouncing between us, we wandered back inside and into his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never expected this to actually get so many hits and much less people sticking around long enough to give it kudos, so thanks for that, guys! That was a pleasant surprise. Anyhow, if you see a typo, please just comment or [send me a message on Tumblr](http://tennantstype40.tumblr.com/ask). I don't know why I'm naming these chapters but I am. And now that I'm seven chapters in, I can't stop now. This was a bad idea. I hate naming chapters.


	8. Preferred Customer Perks

Monday. Mid-August.

Let me just say that, Monday started out as a fucking disaster.

At some point around 6:00 in the morning, I woke up to the sound of Dave’s voice—barely more than a whisper then. I’m not sure how long he’d been calling for me, and, really, I’d rather not find out. All I knew was that, when I turned the light on, I found him sitting on the edge of the bed, blankets draped around his shoulders, and doubled over in pain. All the while, his leg twitched erratically.

It didn’t take any sort of fancy logic to figure out what was going on. I was out of the room as soon as I saw him and back with his medicine less than a minute later. Seeing as he had a tendency to impatiently dry-swallow pills when I left to get water, I’d gotten into the habit of bringing a filled glass with me. (Rose had informed me at some point earlier in the day that leaving a glass filled by the sink would probably be beneficial. Not surprisingly, she was right.)

I gave both to him, waited for him to finish chugging the water, and took the glass back out into the kitchen before taking a seat at the foot of his bed. “Need anything else?”

He shook his head and dropped beneath the covers.

Still, I felt kind of bad just leaving him. I’d quickly caught on to the fact that the medicine—like most—took a while to kick in. Normally, it wasn’t anything big. It was some mild pain or a dull ache. That night was different, though. I’d never seen him in such bad shape before and, really, I felt like I should at least stay there with him.

“You want me to come up there with you?” It was out of my mouth before I realized what I was saying. I couldn’t take it back and, really, I didn’t want to.

Going off of his quiet “yes,” he didn’t want me to go back on it, either.

So, I crawled up to the head of the bed and slipped under the covers to his right. I instinctively wrapped my arm around him and drew him close to my chest, where he remained until he finally fell asleep.

By the time we woke up around 10:00, though, the roles had been reversed. Somehow, Dave had managed to weasel out of my grip and had me in a loose embrace. When I questioned him about it, he insisted that he hated being the little spoon. (When I pointed out that we weren’t actually spooning, he ignored me.) I’m just guessing he woke up at some point and pushed me around until he had his turn at it. That selfish bastard. But, damn, he knew how to do that whole “there but not” type of hold.

That’s off the topic, though.

See, to cheer him up after the debacle of earlier in the morning, I decided to take him to pick out some new glasses. Since Rose was at work already, we had to take a taxi. Not that it mattered much, though; Dave’s car probably ended up as a tin can somewhere and I didn’t have a license. Initially, I’d planned on just taking him to get some frames at a regular store—like Target or whatever. But _oh God no_. That’s apparently not how it’s supposed to be done.

Before I could tell the taxi driver where to go, Dave had put in his two cents and directed us towards an actual eye clinic. When we arrived, we were dropped off at the door. And, seeing as nothing ever goes like I plan it, the cab driver ended up taking off with Dave’s wheelchair. Dave, meanwhile, was left leaning against a light pole and puffing on a cigarette. Still, he was pretty damned amused that I ended up chasing the taxi down an entire city block until I managed to catch it at a stoplight.

When I got back, Dave was sitting on the curb. The widest, most insufferable smirk I’d ever seen was spread across his face. “What?” I mumbled. “What? That wasn’t fucking fair.”

“No, but it was fucking hilarious,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, tell that to the taxi driver I scared the shit out of,” I sighed, dropping the chair in front of me and unfolding it (something that, after the last massive clusterfuck that was trying to open it, I just looked up online).

He shrugged and pulled himself up into the seat. “I’ll get you a scooter or something, then. Go after those taxis like a moped rider with a vengeance, you cranky shit.”

I sighed, rolled my eyes, and surreptitiously pushed the back of his chair so that he ended up facing the front door. “That’s nice. Aren’t we here to get you actual glasses? Because those hipster shades are getting on my nerves.”

“Ray-Bans, actually,” Dave pointed out.

“Whatever they are, I’ll be shoving them up your smug ass some time before we’re both dead,” I grumbled.

Dave, obviously having seen the opening I made, jumped on the opportunity. “Well, I might not feel that quite as much as I used to but that still sounds pretty hot.” He punctuated the joke with a smirk.

“That’s it. That is fucking it. We’re going inside, now. And I don’t fucking know you,” I mumbled as I grabbed onto the handle and walked both of us into the building.

As soon as we arrived, the receptionists went ape shit. Apparently, Dave was one of the place’s frequent customers, so most of them hadn’t seen him since the accident. The whole meet and greet spectacle lasted ten minutes—time which I spent reading through a random informational booklet about glaucoma that I picked up.

When all of that was done, we wandered over to the rightmost area of the reception lounge. There, four fitting desks were centered amidst three full wall displays and a few standing racks of glasses frames. The backmost wall was men’s glasses, while the one on the left was women’s and children. The wall on the right was for sunglasses, but we already knew Dave didn’t need any more of the goddamn things.

So, I shoved him in the direction of the back wall. And a festival of absolute bullshit—and I mean bullshit on the sort of “aren’t these two grown men acting like absolute buffoons in public and why haven’t we kicked them out” level—ensued.

It started out innocently enough. Having clipped his shades to the collar of his shirt, Dave grabbed the first pair he could reach—a pair of classic black round-rimmed glasses—put them on, and gave me a forceful but harmless kick in the shin to get my attention. “You ready to go to Hogwarts, bitch?” he snickered.

“You do know that joke only works if you look like Harry Potter, right, you shithead?” I pointed out.

“You’re no fun. You are, like, the epitome of anti-fun. You are the no fun police. When are you getting your angry no-fun police dog?” he grumbled as he stuck the glasses back on a random space in the display. (I quickly corrected this while he looked for another pair.)

I, meanwhile, refused to let him know that I was amused by his asinine rambling. Even so, I couldn’t help but smile. “You’re going to get us kicked out.”

Dave shrugged, balanced himself up against the small counter beneath the main display, and nabbed a pair of red horn-rimmed glasses. “These are ugly. I love them.”

I didn’t need to see them on him to know they weren’t the right ones. Aside from the fact that they were a massive eyesore, they were just as outlandishly huge as the sunglasses. So, naturally, I snatched them back and stuck them back on their display. “That’s nice. Love them from afar.”

“No fun,” Dave repeated, louder this time. He sighed, folded his arms across his chest, and rocked himself forwards and backwards in his chair. He chewed thoughtfully at his lip. “What do you suggest, then, you know-it-all killjoy?”

By then, I’d already found a pair. They were silver rimmed semi round glasses with a keyhole bridge. If I wanted to get really snobby, which I do, they were specifically Pantos style glasses. I grabbed those and handed them over to him. “These.”

“These are goddamn grandma glasses, man,” he whined.

“No, those sunglasses are fucking ancient mummified remains glasses. Now just try the damn things,” I replied, stifling a laugh the entire time.

He shrugged. I guess he figured he had nothing to lose, because he stuck them on and leaned in closer to the mirror at the edge of the counter. “Hm… Okay, fine. You win, you smartass.”

I let myself bathe in the glory of the I-told-you-so moment before actually replying. “So, what? We’ll come back…?”

By then, he’d already managed to push himself to the front counter and hand over the frames. And, to top it all off, he flashed me a wry grin when he noticed that I was looking at him.

I sighed and trudged over to him. “So, what?”

“Rose’ll pick them up later today.”

“What the fuck type of place is this?” I mumbled.

“If you got the dough, they’ll speed up service. And Rose sure does have the dough, darlin’.”

Another sigh escaped me. “Okay, fine, then. Fine! I give up! You will never let me have a moment of legitimate victory, will you?”

“Nope,” he confirmed.

Though I replied with a defeated huff, I loved the usual banter as much as I always had.

Sure, that day had started out a massive clusterfuck; but, it got better. Somehow, it turned into two grown men verbally harassing each other in a family optometrist clinic. This snowballed into Dave deciding that it was a totally great idea to pick up a bright neon orange leather jacket at a yard sale on the way home. By the end of the day, we’d been officially banned from a small family ice cream shop (Dave kept trying to buy their sculpture of a cow and they got fed up with it), acquired new glasses, and won a whole five goddamn dollars from a scratch lottery ticket that Dave found stuck in a mail drop-off box. And, at the end, I drifted to sleep in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point this is kind of turning into a collection of drabbles with one central focus and though I do kind of have a plan, I'll just say that you can pretty much read these as individual stories that happen in the same timeline. So, it's a story but split into smaller stories. I don't know how to explain that...


	9. How Not to Play Golf

The next few weeks went over about the same as the others.

We fucked around, managed to get ourselves banned from a further three establishments, and just generally left steaming piles of immature bullshit antics wherever we went. Oh, and, about those three places we were banned from… One was a family restaurant with an all-you-can-eat shrimp bar. After paying the required $12.99, Dave gorged until he had pretty much stuffed himself to near-vomiting point. Then, he’d managed to get caught smuggling some of the goddamn stuff out in his pockets. Another place was a local gas station, which we were banned from after repeatedly asking for kumquat. (“This is a gas station, sirs, please leave.”) The final place we got banned from was an area pizza joint, mainly because they caught Dave loosening the caps on the salt shakers.

Long story short, by early mid-September, we’d managed to get ourselves into enough shit to qualify as drunken frat kids without even getting drunk. (Well, seeing as Rose had a hidden stash of alcohol, Dave admittedly got drunk a few times. I kept him home on those days, though. The world can barely handle a sober Strider; I’d hate to think what would happen if a drunken one got out into the general public.)

As far as recovery went, Dave improved considerably with each week. Despite his stubborn insistence not to, he eventually wore one of the less noticeable ankle braces that Jade brought over. Surprisingly enough, he even got to the point that he finally realized it took a lot less energy to run people over in a wheelchair instead of stumbling around on crutches like a drunken giraffe. (“Officially,” his decision was to use the chair for general getting around and the crutches for special occasions.) By the beginning of September, he’d even gotten enough strength back in his arm to push himself around. (And, apparently, do wheelies. Because why the fuck not?)

Even so, he was still healing. And we were still learning the exact extent of his injuries. In mid-August, we were told that—contrary to earlier estimates—the spinal damage was permanent. Within the same week, we went to have his wrist checked on, only to find out that a formerly overlooked injury rendered it pretty much useless. (After that, Dave cheered himself up by rigging his wrist brace up with some sort of convoluted phone holder. I don’t even fucking know. He said something about him looking like a spy.)

Naturally, this led to a lot of bad days. I spent just as much time publically disgracing myself and him as I did holding him in my arms as he cried himself to sleep. For every time we got kicked out of somewhere (as mentioned, exactly three), there was a day I caught him in the process of emptying Rose’s alcohol cabinet. Consequently, there were another three days that were spent waiting on the hungover bastard.

Still, for as much bullshit as he dragged me through, I loved him. I loved him and his goddamn stupid plots and schemes. I loved how he’d tousle my hair at night and mutter some sort of insincere form of “good night” before falling asleep. And, as much as I hated to admit it, I loved that wry grin of his—that smug little smirk that’d show up whenever he was being a smartass. So, when he approached me about possibly moving out, I agreed.

(Not that I disliked Rose. When Dave wasn’t in the mood to hang out, I spent some time with her. She was pretty cool. I mean, I don’t think we’d ever be really close friends, but we got along well enough. Besides that, she knew how to annoy Dave; and, that was something that greatly amused me. So, we had a mutual interest in harassing the poor shit-stain.)

That was around late Mid-August. Dave and I started searching for some sort of apartment immediately afterwards. By the beginning of September, we’d found one. A little ground-level studio deal in a sort of run-down (but still more welcoming than that shitshow of a shack I shared with Kankri) apartment complex a few miles from Rose’s house.

Despite Dave’s insistence that he’d find a job and pay the rent, Rose helped out. She gave us enough money to cover the upfront costs and we were ready to move in.

Friday, September 13th.

We arrived at the place with the few things Dave had taken from the house and whatever I had with me. So, in all, we had a pretty pitiful move-in inventory. Dave had a television, his records, a turntable, his laptop, his bed, a guitar, an electric bass guitar, and a coffee maker. I had my clothes and few boxes of old books and photo albums. Rose tagged along, too, bringing some decorative items such as curtains and wall art.

Seeing as we didn’t have a whole lot of stuff with us to begin with, we were finished getting our main belongings in by noon. Around then, Dave put a record by some asshole named Django Reinhardt on the record player and got that started while we all bickered over where to put the decorations.

“If you keep on insisting on hanging the goddamn pictures up so high, then you might as well put a huge goddamn sign that says ‘DAVE SUCKS, HE DOESN’T GET TO LOOK AT THIS’ on it,” was Dave’s main complaint. While I wouldn’t exactly have said he put it nicely, he had a point. The normal height for pictures wasn’t exactly at his eye level. Still, they looked kind of dorky that low. Eventually, we compromised by doubling the pictures up. The ones Dave liked were hung lower and the ones I liked were hung above them. It looked unconventional, but it wasn’t exactly ugly. (Although, I’m not sure any home and garden shows would be clambering for a photo of our house.)

By the time we were done, it was pretty easy to figure out who was who. Dave’s stuff was almost hilariously separate from my own. The pictures I’d brought (most of which I’d managed to convince Kankri to part with, because he was a fucking packrat, anyhow) were mostly traditional kinds of wall art. A few landscapes here and a few pictures of random old buildings there. Dave’s stuff was a bit more eccentric. He hung his own photographs of whatever the hell he damn well pleased. There were little framed collages of certain odd topics—an inch worm, his beloved motorcycle, a trash can, and so on.

When all of that was finished—once the pictures were hung and the bed actually assembled properly—Rose left us to our own devices.

**_And, in this way, another chapter of my life with Dave began._ **

 

When we woke the next morning, Dave suggested that we meet John at a nearby mini golf course. While I had a hunch that taking Dave to such a venue was probably a bad idea, I didn’t give enough of a fuck to actually care what happened. So, I agreed.

We called up a taxi and took the twelve minute ride out until we arrived at the course—a little family-run medieval themed place with an attached snack bar. While John and I bought tickets, Dave tested out the various putters from his chair. Eventually, he settled on a (not surprisingly) bright red adult club and an identically colored children’s putter. Apparently, the latter was for “close shots.” (Although, really, every hole in mini golf is technically a close shot.)

Then, we started. And it went well enough.

The first hole started out as I expected it would. John somehow landed a hole in one and managed to distract Dave enough for him to lose the ball to the water obstacle of an entirely different goddamn hole. (Specifically, it splashed into a small pond two holes away.) At that point, we also received a warning for Dave’s stream of profanities.

Once we’d gotten him a new ball, though, he managed to get par.

I was five over par. (I’m no good at any sort of golf.)

Second hole. Dave scored par again. John was one over, and I was three over.

“You both suck at this game,” was Dave’s reassuring commentary as we moved on to the third hole.

There, John managed to love three balls to the aforementioned pond and Dave somehow got a hole in one. I, for once, was the average performance.

By the third hole, the social shit hit the fan. It turned into an all-out one-upping fest.

It started simply enough. That hole had a little river running through it and people were expected to hit the ball over this bridge in the middle. Since Dave couldn’t actually reach far enough to hit it over the bridge, John came up with an alternate solution.

“Just hit it over the gap,” he said, “It’s only a foot or two. And the sides are sloped. Hit it hard enough and it should jump it.”

Naturally, Dave took this as less of a workaround and more of a dare. We lost two balls to that hole. The first didn’t get far enough; the second went too far, ending up somewhere in the second half of the course. But, as the saying goes, third time’s the charm. Dave sunk a hole in one, at which point he predictably crowned himself king of mini golf.

I couldn’t let that stand, so I tried my damned best to beat him. But, like I said, I suck at golf and I ended up three over par. John fared only slightly better with two over.

The second hole had a small hill surmounted by a sculpture of a sleeping dragon. Unfortunately, john had already set Dave on a path hell-bent upon being a sack of immature shit.

“Bet I can hit it hard enough to jump the dragon?” Dave wagered.

I turned down the offer. “I’d actually like to finish the course without getting banned from _another_ town venue,” I pointed out.

John, however, was more than happy to take his offer. “Six dollars says you can,” he laughed.

“There are f—freaking children behind us. Can we for once be mildly decent goddamn human beings and not hold up the family fun line?” I grumbled.

“No,” Dave and John both chorused. As they finished, Dave hit the ball hard enough to do just what he-d claimed he could. It jumped the dragon statue, sure; but, it also went rocketing off into the distance. Presumably, it eventually came crashing down to earth as a meteor and scared the living shit out of an unsuspecting European farmer.

(Admittedly, I should have known better than to let them meet for the first time in weeks at a mini golf course. I’d been friends with John for just as long as Dave had, and I learned at an early age that mixing the pair meant trouble time fifteen. And then square that number. By that logic and common sense, they were just a whole lot of bullshit waiting to happen.)

“You’re shitting me,” I grumbled.

“Damn,” John sighed, pulling six dollars from his wallet and handing it over. Then, he took out the score card saying as he scribbled the final tally, “I’ll count that as a hole in one for Dave.”

“What the hell!?” I interjected.

John smirked. “Adding two to Karkat’s score for poor sportsmanship.”

I muttered a few curses under my breath and accepted the fact that I would always be the butt of jokes when John was around. After all, he and Dave had been close friends for far longer than I had even known Dave. So, really, I guess it was kind of fair. Although, I suppressed the urge to point out that Dave was dating me and not John.

The rest of the course went about the same. Dave even managed to sink a ball into a hole that wasn’t the one we were playing on. Still, by John’s convoluted scoring system, Dave won. He had an impossible thirty above par, while I had fifty over. John, meanwhile, had stopped taking his own score long before the ninth hole.

As a whole, though, the day went well. We managed to not get banned from the mini golf course. We even ate dinner at the attached snack bar, where we ordered a variety of hot dogs and burgers. With our appetites filled, we convinced John to drop us off on the way back to his house.

When I joined him in bed, a rare thought—that, maybe, everything could work out right for once—crossed my mind. Of course, with my luck, I probably jinxed everything with that singular passing thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seeing as this entire fic started out as an experiment that I'd meant to post a while ago and never got around to actually writing. So, yes, I'm going to try spinning this a slightly different way in the coming chapters. A little more serious than it has been, at the very least. I've kinda' been fucking around with general fluff. Hopefully it goes over well and if not I'll just flee to Cuba or something. But thanks for all the positive feedback so far and feel free to continue to leave it! Really, I'm surprised at how much positive feedback this is getting.


	10. Situational Bargaining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one thought this would go anywhere with a little drama/tension whatever, did they? I hope not. Anyhow, here's a bit of a change of pace. Kind of. I don't know. Like I said, this is sort of like a giant series of related one-shots that may or may not at the end form one cohesive story that is actually presentable as a episodic piece. Like... It might be an actual cohesive story or it might be a non-plot-driven cartoon with a bunch of little episodes that aren't really related to one another. Again, I don't know. I hope you still enjoy it, though.

I’m fairly certain that there’s an unwritten natural law that I don’t know about that says “The world must shit on Karkat Vantas,” because it sure as hell feels that way. Three days after meeting with John—as I sat in the waiting room of the hospital Dave and I met at—I felt certain that that law was fact.

Backing up a bit, though… It started late Sunday afternoon. Dave complained of his usual spasms. We both assumed nothing was unusual; he took medication and took a nap. When he woke up was when shit hit the fan. The first complaint wasn’t ass concerning as it was odd—a sharp stinging sensation spanning up the lower portion of his right leg. The worrying part came half an hour later, when he realized he couldn’t move his leg.

Naturally, I rushed him to the hospital. Seeing as we couldn’t drive, that meant calling an ambulance.

When we arrived, we were informed that—given Dave’s medical history—he’d probably had some sort of stroke. After an hour or so of testing, this was confirmed. Dave was given a shot of whatever medicine they thought would work and sent to spend a night under observation.

I tried to stay with him, but I was kicked out on the grounds that it was an uncertain situation and I wasn’t legally related to him. I was allowed to stay long enough to give him a new change of clothes and some tentatively positive reassurance. Then, I was ushered out of the room.

I didn’t leave completely, though. I couldn’t bring myself to. After being kicked out, I called John. He came and visited alongside Rose before exiting a short while later. Unlike me and John, Rose got to stay back with Dave. However, she promised to send any messages for me on via text. (Not surprisingly, she lived up to the promise. I got a barrage of constant nagging, though it seemed less sincere than usual. Maybe it was because it wasn’t backed by his voice; maybe it was the situation. I didn’t know because I wasn’t allowed back.)

At some point during the night, Rose sent me an admittedly touching text thanking me for keeping Dave (somewhat) in check over the past few weeks and reminding me that I was welcome to take a break whenever I needed to. I graciously refused. I’d stuck with him through that many weeks of bullshit and I wasn’t going to just quit.

For dinner, I bought some chips and soda from the snack machine. A whole two bags of plain chips and a small can of soda. As much as I always abhorred filming myself, I managed to put it aside long enough to send him a brief good night message. Then, I fell asleep in the family waiting room.

Back to the very moment that life decided it hadn’t shat on me for too long, though.

Around 7:00 in the morning, Rose woke me up.

She’d convinced the staff to allow me to sneak into the room so I’d be there when he woke up. So, that was a minor bonus to the following stream of semi-discernable medical jargon. After some post-conversational parsing, though, I managed to get a general grasp of what was happening.

For one thing, Dave was in an understandably foul mood. (Rose hoped that waking with me beside him instead of her would do at least a small amount of good for that problem.)  He had been informed of the prognosis—of additional damage to his spine and further paralysis—late last night. According to optimistic estimates, he would need some sort of walking aid for the rest of his life. When he had the gall in inquire about riding a motorcycle, the idea was quickly put out. However, he was allowed to leave in the morning.

Having told me that that much, Rose led me up to Dave’s room and left.

I went in and sat at his bedside. I knew that the Dave that woke up wouldn’t be the usual bundle of snarky charisma that I’d come to love, but I felt compelled to at least show him that I wouldn’t ditch him. After all, he’d expressed concerns before then about me leaving if things went wrong again. There was no way I was going to let him wake up thinking that I’d deserted him.

So, I waited. When he wasn’t awake by 8:00, I went to the cafeteria long enough to grab something for both of us to eat. Then, I set both plates aside. (Though I never got around to eating the burnt sausages I’d gotten for myself.)

In all, I waited for four hours—until 11:00—for him to wake up. And, when he did, I was there to greet him. “Hey,” I said, keeping my voice as soft as I possibly could. (Which, really, isn’t all that quiet.) “It’s a good thing they don’t have checkout times at hospitals, because you would’ve been kicked out by now.”

To my surprise, Dave managed to crack a tired smile. “What time is it?” he mumbled as he pulled himself into a sitting position.

“Eleven. Your breakfast is cold,” I pointed out, handing him the plate of pancakes I’d gotten for him. I’d prepared them like he preferred them—stacked high and covered in enough syrup to drown a tenth of China’s population.

He seemed less than enthusiastic. Still, he took the plate and started eating. That much was a start.

“You ready to go home?” I asked.

He shrugged and grabbed his shades from their spot on his bedside table. “I don’t know,” he grumbled. “It doesn’t really matter to me.”

“How about we get your ass home and I’ll let you have the side of the bed near the window?”

He shrugged again.

I sighed. There wasn’t much else I could do but wait for him to finish his meal.

And that’s exactly what I did. For the first time in a long while, an awkward silence hung between us. It stretched on as a nurse came in to give Dave a final checkup before helping him out of bed and into his wheelchair. It even managed to stick around as we exited the hospital.

Once we got into the taxi, though, the tense air seemed to lighten a little.

“Hey, Karkat?” Dave was, surprisingly, the first one to speak up.

“Hm?”

Looking at him then, the only word I could use to describe him would be tired. He looked run down and lost and confused. Still, he managed to offer me another tired half-smile. “Thanks for the pancakes. Not enough syrup, though.”

I laughed nervously. As much as I usually loved his shitty jokes, this one lacked the usual vocal punch behind it. It lacked that trademark smirk and the occasional dorky wink. It lacked energy. _He_ lacked energy. And it was driving me up the fucking wall.

But, there wasn’t anything I could do about it. There wasn’t a single goddamn thing I could do to help him and I hated it. I hated the fact that he had to go through the bullshit he did. I hated watching him constantly hit monumental highs only to be set back ten steps by some goddamn complication. It all bothered the hell out of me. But there was nothing I could fucking do.

And, I guess I let that shit get to me to the point that it was somehow clear to him, because my thoughts were interrupted by the sensation of his hand on my shoulder. I felt his thumb brush against my cheek with that sort of childish hesitancy that only he could have with someone who’d already toughed out seven weeks of the emotional equivalent of making butter. And I couldn’t help but smile.

“Fuck you,” I grumbled under my breath.

Though I didn’t mean for him to hear it, I guess he did. Because he laughed—a real, genuine laugh accompanied by a genuine grin. “I don’t think now is a good time,” he replied. “But what’s the occasion, darlin’?”

Seeing as I was already caught saying it, I had to follow through. “I was going to say fuck you for making me care so damned much about your inconsiderate, pompous, reckless ass.”

“Nice to know that you’re actually a massive softie under all that yelling, dude,” Dave snickered.

I nodded.

Despite the sudden boost in mood, though, he was quick to revert back to his former state of shell-shocked (what I guess could be called) resentment. And I could practically feel him slipping away from me. I dug through my mind for anything—any idea or thought or joke or _something_ —that could bring him back. Then, suddenly, it hit me.

It was reckless and stupid enough to be one of his. And, I loved it. Sure, it was dangerous and outrageous. But, I knew it would work and, aside from that, it would benefit us both. “Hey, Dave,” I said, adding a gentle nudge to get his attention.

“Yeah?” he mumbled.

“I’ve got a deal for you.”

Dave quirked his brow so that a small bit of dyed blond was visible above the shades. He folded his arms across his chest as if to say “I’m listening to see if this is worth my time,” and glanced at me expectantly.

“If you promise to stop smoking those nasty carcinogenic rolls of bullshit, I’ll learn how to ride that shitty motorcycle of yours,” I offered.

He nodded slowly. “And…?”

“I’ll find a way to get your ass on it, too.”

“Deal,” he practically yelled. “I’ll need that in writing.”

Honestly, while I knew it would work, I didn’t think he’d be so quick to agree. From what I knew, stressful situations were prime times for smoking and Dave was certainly stressed. More interesting to me, though, was his shift in mood. His energy seemed to return like he was some sort of adrenaline-crazed sponge soaking up water. (Or, I guess, extreme water.)

It occurred to me then that Dave’s major issues with his injuries were how he looked and how long it would be before he could sit his ass down on that speeding scooter of death again. He’d already gotten over his admittedly petty vanity concerns a few weeks prior, so, really, all that he was concerned about then was his bike. So, maybe, it wasn’t so out of place for him to respond to my offer so quickly.

My concern, though, was that he would weasel his way out of his end of the bargain. So, when he offered the chance to write up a contract, I jumped on it.

When we were both settled in the apartment, I grabbed some printing paper and wrote out a crude agreement. Beneath the unofficial contract’s main text, I drew two lines. On one, I scribbled my name. Dave signed the other in red fountain pen. Then, he snatched it away from me and stuck it up on the fridge door.

“There,” he said, pointing at the slightly wrinkled page. “We’ve got a deal.”

“And that means you do, too, jackass,” I pointed out.

“Well, it’s a fair trade. You’re absolute shit at handling any sort of adrenaline and I’ve been smoking since I was twelve. We’ve both got a long road to kick each other down, right?” He punctuated his statement with a weary half-smile. “Besides, who’s to say I won’t be the one who finishes his end of the bargain first?”

“Pretty sure you won’t be,” I goaded him on. The faster he quit stinking up the place with those damned cigarettes, the happier I’d be. Of course, I’d have to learn to ride a motorcycle sooner, but that was a tradeoff.

He yawned, stretched his arms above his head, and cracked his one remaining good wrist. “Yeah, as you can see, I’m very threatened by your commentary. Now, I’m going to bed. Wake me up when this shit festival is over, will you?” With that, he meandered into the bedroom.

Seeing as hospital waiting rooms aren’t very conducive to a good night’s right, I followed his lead shortly thereafter. And I guess we both must have needed the sleep, because we were out until noon the next day.


	11. Boiling Point

I’m not sure why I did, but—at some point—I calculated how long I’d been with Dave. From the moment we first met, it had been a fair number of months and weeks and, specifically, two days. From the moment we started dating, it had been six weeks and two days. So, that made this particular day some point in late mid-September.

By then, the summer heat was mostly gone. The air was still thick with humidity, though, and Dave made sure that everyone knew he hated that damned humidity. It wouldn’t be fall for another three days, but Dave was pretty certain that fall had started early. The leaves were already turning different colors and the grass was dying.

Not surprisingly, the next few days were a blur of emotional insanity. Though he clung onto the deal like some sort of precious lifeline, he became increasingly disillusioned with pretty much everything around him. He stopped talking to me and started spending most of his time in bed plucking away at an old, out of tune C. F. Martin guitar. From what I’d learned during his mostly out-of-touch ramblings, he’d gotten it from his brother for his tenth birthday. It was made of sycamore wood and was specifically a CEO-8 model acoustic and electric guitar.

Aside from that mildly intriguing guitar background information, his ramblings—which came at random times and seemed to only pertain to what was on his mind—included musings on his mild distaste for his then-current situation and oddly personal stories about moments in his life. I even managed to learn a little bit about his brother. Apparently, he died in an accident almost identical to Dave’s. Before then, he was a motorcycle enthusiast and aspiring stunt actor. Of course, seeing as it’s hard to be either of those when you’re dead, those dreams didn’t go very far.

The entire spiral—which included his random musings—was over by the middle of Wednesday. By Wednesday evening, he seemed content with just trying to sleep his problems away. So, suffice to say, he was in a foul mood on Thursday when I had to wake him up for another visit with Jade.

(“What’s the fucking point?” he’d asked me apathetically. “I don’t really give a damn.” Other commentary from him was enough for me to barely restrain from punching him in the face. Such observations included imploring me to dump him and find someone else with less personal problems.)

By the time Jade showed up, I was about ready to strangle him. For the first time, we sat away from one another. I sat in his armchair and he was spread out on the sofa. Though he wore the glasses we’d picked out together, he refused to look at me. He kept his head down the entire time and spoke in a voice quiet enough for only the wind to hear him.

Jade, though, was predictably undeterred. After expressing her condolences for the recent turn of events (something that Dave completely ignored), she began the session as she usually did—sitting on the coffee table with her legs crossed and Dave’s foot in her lap. The first step was a round of routine stretches. Seeing as she had to do this for both legs, the time it took doubled to around an hour.

Throughout that time, she tried to draw out more than the apathetic sighs that Dave was responding with. At some point, she mentioned that he was progressing nicely. He snapped back that he was regressing. When she pointed out that most things—including motorcycles—could be modified for easier use, he’d rolled his eyes. Even her attempt to humor him with some shitty jokes was met with dejected silence.

As hard as I tried to ignore it, I couldn’t. I couldn’t get over that tired frown on his face or the dark circles around his normally vibrant eyes. The way he’d wave off his positive feedback—something that, before, had pushed him enough to usually end up doing something he ultimately wasn’t ready to—gnawed away at me. And I guess I’m just plain weird because, after an hour or so of feeling myself getting dragged into the same whirlwind of despair, I started feeling unbridled anger. By the time Jade brought in the support bars, it took all my self-control not to start yelling. This admittedly undeserved and inexplicable anger was only briefly dented at the fact that Dave had grown so apathetic to the situation that he didn’t object to me staying in the room during this part of the therapy. (Up until then, he’d consistently insisted I leave.)

“You ready, Dave?” Jade encouraged him, offering him one of her trademark smiles.

Dave ignored her. He shrugged and grabbed onto the parallel support bars set in front of him. “Yeah. Whatever. Let’s just speed this up so I can go to bed.”

“You’re being a real downer today, Dave,” Jade sighed. For once, I detected a crack in her cheerful composure—her voice was wavering slightly. She was obviously as concerned for Dave as I was.

“Yeah, well, I’m down two functional legs and a wrist. I’m sure a lot of people would be downers after that,” Dave snapped.

Jade sighed again and tugged at some of the colored bands she kept around her fingers. “Okay…” She paused. It seemed as if she was trying to regain her composure. “Well, you’re doing great. Isn’t he, Karkat?”

I nodded slowly.

Dave responded with a bitter laugh. “Yeah. Thanks for the pity party. Great.” With that said, he heaved himself up into a rough standing position. Unlike before, he didn’t bother to straighten his back or offer any sort of smile—not even one of the smug-as-shit varieties. Once he was situated, his only comment—said through hoarse, labored breaths—was a demand to know what to do next.

“Just try walking by yourself,” Jade shrugged.

Another cynical snort of laughter escaped Dave. “That’s sound advice, isn’t it?” he snapped. “Great idea. What are we testing? How incapable I am of doing the required task?” By then, his arms were shaking. The muscles of his right leg were alternating rapidly between a state of complete relaxation and seemingly unnatural tenseness. A small bit of blood appeared on his lip from where I could only assume he bit it to keep from saying anything else.

“I’m trying to help you, Dave,” Jade said. There was an uncharacteristic amount of serious weight to her tone. Her usual smile had disappeared. She looked less like her usual spunky self and more like an annoyed worker who wasn’t putting up with any more of her client’s bullshit. (Which, considering the situation, was somewhat reasonable bullshit. But, given her position, it was just as reasonable for her to be getting pissed off.) “You’ve got way more of a chance than a lot of my patients, and you’re here wasting all of it to throw yourself some damn pathetic little pity party.”

I was taken aback by her commentary. I had been right on the edge of just grabbing Dave and throwing him out the nearest window. After her unexpectedly blunt speech, though, the anger subsided.

Dave, however, wasn’t fazed. He didn’t even seem to take more than a second to consider her comment before throwing back his own wild response. “Fine, then, you want to see progress?” he growled. Looking into his eyes, there was something there that I’d never seen before—and, frankly, it scared the living shit out of me. Because, looking into his eyes at that moment, I saw only the faintest glimmer of his usual self. He was at the end of the rope that tethered him to reality, and I guess that this was the same already-frayed rope that he’d been clinging to since his brother’s death. And it was becoming painfully clear that it was beginning to rapidly unravel in front of him.

“You want to see progress, bitch?” he snarled. “Fine! Fucking fine!” His grip on the rails tightened until his knuckles were inhumanly white. Sweat beaded on his brow as he used the remaining control he had over his legs to propel them forward far enough to be considered walking. His first step was on his left foot, which he (surprisingly) seemed to favor. I could only assume he’d grown accustomed to that one. After managing to get that foot solidly in place, he swung his right leg forward.

Jade’s former annoyance—much like mine—was then replaced with genuine concern. “Dave, you’re doing way too much for the time being. You need to—”

“What? You wanted me to show you how much fucking potential I have, didn’t you?” At that point, his words were barely audible beneath his ragged gasps for breath. He’d taken four steps—an amazing feat, sure, but a completely illogical one that was advanced only by his rapidly dwindling hold on his identity and reality. Sweat dripped down his face and neck. “So, why should I fucking stop now? Maybe I’ll just drag myself right off to hell and we can all be done with this whole bullshit affair!”

By then, his arms were shaking uncontrollably. Both of his legs were twitching. Still, he threw his weight forward one final time before his left hand slipped from the bar. The only thing keeping him from crashing to the ground was Jade’s lightning fast reaction. By then, he was sobbing. Later, he’d admit it was due to the massive clusterfuck of stress, pain, and confusion he was in at the time.

Then, though, all we could do was get him back onto the sofa and let him work it out. Jade left shortly afterwards. She left a message for Dave that she hoped he would change his mind soon and to contact her once she felt better; but, she admitted she couldn’t handle the situation.

Admittedly, neither could I. But I couldn’t exactly take a break. Though I told Rose of the situation and she advised me to just let him cry it out, I couldn’t do that, either. His harsh, gasping sobs pounded against my eardrums like gunshots and, eventually, I ended up holding him in my arms.

After some time—and by some time I mean at least three hours—he calmed down. He started to do something I never thought he—the stoic high school cool kid who never once batted an eye at even the worst of things—would do. He started talking things out.

It began with the story of the event that initially broke his lifeline to reality. When he was twelve, his brother—then twenty two—was killed. A drunk driver sped through an intersection and he was killed on impact. As if to add insult to injury, the remains were so badly mangled that they ended up cremating him without allowing Dave to see him. So, in a way, Dave admitted to never actually having any semblance of satisfying closure on the first traumatic event of his life.

When he finally got to freshman year of high school, he was somehow swept up into the cool kid crowd. He ended up heading a sort of in-school gang of troublemakers with nothing better to do and ultimately graduated with one of the lowest grade point averages in the entire school. (That much I’d already known from rumors.) He also admitted that he dabbled in various recreational drugs before deciding that tobacco was his thing.

These revelations were followed by another short bout of sobbing. Then, when he’d gathered himself the second time, he continued with what I could only assume was the first and only time he’d ever opened up to anyone about his life.

After his brother died, he dropped out of school for the year. Since it happened in December a few days after Christmas, he pretty much flunked the entire year. After two court hearings for truancy, he was forced to attend summer school, which he also failed. There, he ran into an old friend of mine, Gamzee (who, two weeks after graduation, fled to an unspecified location with his massive stash of illegal drugs), and was introduced to the addictive powers of nicotine.

Up until he was legally old enough to buy the cigarettes himself, he got by with fake identification and money from petty theft. (He was caught around sophomore year. Everyone knew that. The news that the class cool kid was in jail for three months was kind of a big deal back then. He didn’t need to mention that.) By junior year, he’d basically gone personally bankrupt from buying cigarettes. He cut back from three packs a day to one—the dosage he had then—to save money. By the time we graduated, he had only twelve dollars of his own.

In retrospect, his insufferable demeanor and dodgy reputation actually made a lot of sense. It started with his brother’s unexpected death and snowballed from there. Presumably, the fatal accident left and unresolved tear in the fabric of his life. He patched that with cigarettes, alcohol, and some drugs during late middle school and throughout high school. By the start of junior year, his parents had kicked him out to live with his nearby sister (half sister?) Rose. Around then was when he gained a reputation for showing up at school on the verge of alcohol poisoning. Some point during that year, he went to a month of in-school suspension for getting into a fight with rival cool kid, Vriska. By senior year, he was the go-to guy for alcohol parties. Apparently, he was even more “life of the party” than he usually was when drunk.

For years, I’d just assumed he was another kid with nothing better to do than ruin my education with his drunken presentations about unrelated topics in class. I assumed he was one of those kids who showed up only because they were legally obligated to and started cutting class once he turned eighteen because he could. For years, I avoided him out of fear that I’d get mixed in with his crowd. And, as I learned that night, he was the furthest from those assumptions I could get.

By the time he was done spilling his bottled up emotions out all over me, it was 7:00 in the evening. We were both tired and miserable and reached the unanimous conclusion that skipping dinner for one night wasn’t going to kill us. When he managed to fall asleep on the sofa, I made the partially forced decision that sofas were just as good a sleeping platform as beds and joined him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you it was getting more serious. I meant it. But I promise it won't all be doom and gloom. I mean, lookit that tiny little silver lining ending to that chapter right there. Anyhow, feedback, comments, and concerns are welcome in the comments section (hence its name). Any other concerns, suggestions, hate mail, and/or fan mail (???) is welcome on [my blog](http://tennantstype40.tumblr.com/ask).


	12. How to Probe Edible Snails

Dave showed glimpses of his usual self at sporadic points through the remainder of September, and we rounded it off as a pretty even mix of good and bad. Given the reasonable shock from the recent turn of events, the whole emotional roller coaster thing was more than justified. Even I somehow got caught up in the whirlwind. I found myself feeling just as much disappointment and anger and resentment as Dave did, though at different times.

But, when October came, things took a turn for the better. At the very least, Dave was more enthusiastic about things than he had been. I guess that had a lot to do with situation, too. A few days after what he came to refer to as “The Shit, Part Two,” we (and by “we” I mean Rose, John, Jade and I) presented him with a new adapted car. Honestly, we’d been secretly pooling the money from the fifth week of his recovery onward and we’d had the actual finished car hidden in the Egbert household’s garage for at least two weeks prior. We just figured that it was a good time to try and cheer him up.

John and I had picked out the actual car when it came down to it. Before we began our two day search, though, we’d agreed on a few key specifications. First of all, it had to be red. (Because, for some odd reason, Dave might as well have a fetish for that garish color.) Second, it had to be a muscle car. After all, nothing said “Dave Strider” like a standout red car that barreled down every road like it owned it. Our two top picks were a Ford Mustang and a Chevy Camaro, but both of those ideas were shot down because of the two-door build. So, we ended up going with a Dodge Charger. John and I (though most of my money came from Kankri) chipped in to buy the car. Rose and Jade both paid for the adaptive refitting.

Anyhow, when we presented it, he was thrilled. For the time being, it was the closest he could get to risking his ass on that goddamn motorcycle of his. Through the following week, he taught himself how to drive it. Hell, I woke up one night and found that he’d sneaked out of the house to do some nighttime driving.

Despite being one of four people to present him with a car, I was the last to see him drive it. And, apparently, it was all part of one of Dave’s wild schemes. Apparently, he wanted to save it—where “it” means "me seeing the fucker drive”—for a special occasion. Specifically, he wanted to wait until our two month anniversary. (We’d missed the first because we didn’t exactly have a way to get anywhere.) And he sure as hell did.

As a whole, the date—notably, our first official formal date—was a predominantly positive memory. But, due in part to its timing, it was also a massive fucknado of emotions. In some ways, it was a massive step forward for both of us; in others, it was a few smaller steps back.

**_I guess I might as well move on and tell the actual story, though…_ **

Dave had the date booked the day he got his car. He took me to this ridiculously fancy French restaurant on one of the busiest tourist trap streets in the entire area. Everyone knew the restaurant existed but, thanks to its extravagant prices, most people hadn’t ever tasted it. Aside from myself, that included Dave, too. So, we were both diving in without any clue of what to expect.

Though the place took walk-ins, Dave knew one of the head chefs (I did, too, it turns out, since she was goddamn Terezi Pyrope) and somehow talked her into letting him take one of the five private booths. (Normally a $95 value, all free with some bribery and social connections!) For that reason, we needed reservations, and ours were for 7:30 that night.

Seeing as I didn’t know any of that beforehand, the fact that Dave popped out of the bedroom around 6:00 in an admittedly dashing suit was a complete surprise. The fact that he cleaned up exceptionally well was also a pleasant surprise. He had his hair slicked off to the side like he usually did, though he’d smoothed it down to eliminate the usual wild strands. His suit fit him perfectly—the shining black sleeves fell just short of the end of the pure white shirt cuffs, and a deep red vest with a contrasting black tie wrapped the entire outfit up nicely. His shoes were polished to an impeccable shine. Really, he looked amazing. (Or, well, he looked more amazing than usual. He looked nice enough for me to distinctly remember blushing when I saw him.) Though he was wearing his shades, I also noted that his plain glasses were tucked away in his chest pocket.

And, looking at him then, I couldn’t help but let it slip. “Holy fucking shit, Dave. Whose personal tailor did you have to murder for that outfit?”

He replied to my inquiry with a sheepish grin. “The suit was my brother’s. I’ve had the vest and tie for a while.” He punctuated his statement with an absentminded shrug. Around then, I noticed that he’d gone so far as to put on some formal white gloves. They were mostly hidden, though, seeing as he’d taken up the habit of wearing fingerless leather gloves. (Jade had suggested that he wear something to protect his hands from the wheel treads. So, it felt wholly natural when he copied his brother’s style. A pair of fingerless black leather gloves—one of which was custom-made with an attached wrist brace.) Still, it was nice that he went that extra mile.

“So, what’s the special occasion?” I asked.

He offered an enigmatic shrug. “I don’t know. I mean… I do, but you have to wait and see.”

“It’s a dinner date. I fucking call it,” I grumbled.

“Okay, fine,” Dave admitted, “But you still don’t know where. So suck on that, Sir Smartass.”

I shrugged the playful goading aside and agreed to follow him wherever the hell we were going.  “You’re already an unlucky driver. I wouldn’t push my goddamn luck with road head.”

That commentary managed to bring out the first Strider smile of the past few days. “Yeah, whatever. I don’t want to be embarrassed going with you, so I asked John for your clothing size and just bought you a suit, too. It’s in the bedroom. Go get yourself ready, because the reservation’s in an hour and a half…ish. Congrats on the suit, too. It’s your reward for dating me.”

I nodded and wandered into the bedroom. There, I found an almost identical suit. The lapel style was different, though. His was a notch lapel, while mine was rounded off in the more traditional shawl style. Not that it mattered, though. It was the first suit I ever owned, after all. And it even came with a black vest and, funny enough, a tie the exact same shade of red as Dave’s vest.

Seeing as it _was_ the first suit I’d ever owned, though, it was also the first one I’d ever actually put on. I’ll admit that it took me a while to actually get into it. At some point, Dave decided that I was taking too long and started to instruct me on how to properly wear everything from the other side of the door. (Honestly, I wouldn’t have minded if he came in, but he said he wasn’t going to see me until I’d gotten the damned thing on right.)

By about 6:50, we were getting into the car. Despite the fact that he’d only actually owned it for less than a month, he was able to get in with remarkable ease and speed. He’d obviously decided on a strategy. He pulled himself up on that unnamed handle above the door (I usually just used them to hang Kankri’s occasional dry cleaning loads) with one hand and used the other to pull against the steering wheel. This essentially created a short swing from his chair to the car. And he had the chair folded up in the back seat by the time I managed figured out where the hell the seat belt was supposed to go.

By 7:00, we were barreling down the road at ten miles over the speed limit. I was grabbing my equivalent of the overhead handle that Dave had used to help himself into the car. It took all of my self-control to not start screaming. Still, he was obviously competent. He braked impeccably. That’s to say his stops weren’t those kinds where you jerk forward a little; no, they were almost uniformly slow, gradual stops that the entire car just seemed to ease into. Despite his speeding habit, there wasn’t anything wrong with his driving habits.

That didn’t mean that I was any less relieved when we finally pulled into the parking lot. That relief was short-lived, though, seeing as all the spaces were taken. And, yes, that included the restaurant’s singular handicap space.

Basically, some jackass in an SUV without even one of those temporary window tags was parked in the space. As if to add insult to injury (or stupidity to stupidity), some other dumbass had parked in the extra space that no one was supposed to park in to fucking begin with. Naturally, we were both angry. I’d be more inclined to classify Dave’s reaction as justifiable rage. I managed to convince him to not ruin his new car by ramming off their bumpers, though. I wasn’t about to mediate between a pissed off Strider and some nitwitted stranger and their insurance company.

(If I were to imagine how that situation would go, it would be along the lines of… “Yeah, well, Dave is pretty pissed off right now and would like to point out that he at least didn’t leave a massive ‘FUCK YOU’ etched into the door with his keys. So we shouldn’t be responsible. Also, he could’ve slashed their tires, but he also didn’t do that. Clearly, this is evidence of him being a perfect A+ model citizen.”)

We ended up parallel parking in front of the place instead. (That was when I learned that Rose had upgraded his car to include one of those fancy rear-view cameras. It even came with a little buzzer that went off when something got too close.)  On the way in, though, Dave was sure to leave an unabashedly aggressive note under the windshield wipers of both cars. Then, he let the topic go.

By the time we got inside of the art deco style restaurant, he seemed to have completely forgotten about the incident. Or, maybe, he just put it on the backburner to keep warm in case he ran into either of those jerks. Either way, he was in a good enough mood to make some small talk with the maître de before we were shown to our seats.

Where we were eating was undoubtedly classy. It also seemed pretty pricey. Aside from being in our own literal red-carpet section, our table had a modest half-wall divider around it. The barrier wasn’t overpowering, though. It was just enough to make us feel like we were in a private setting. They’d even taken the time to remove one of the two cushioned wrought iron chairs so Dave could scoot in across from me. One thing I noticed, though, was that we weren’t given menus. I was about to ask about that when Dave cut in.

“Terezi’s the head chef here. She pulled some strings for us and we’re on the priority meal list. I ordered before we came. John said you like lamb, you disgusting sheep-child-eater,” he explained. “We’re also getting snails, because Rose introduced me to them and they’re so fucking weird they’re great.”

As he finished saying this, two glasses were set down on the table by a waiter running past. Mine was filled with lemonade; his was filled with Coca-Cola. Obviously, he wasn’t lying when he said we were top priority. After taking a sip, I replied. “So, besides snails, what else are you going to be shoveling into your shitty maw?”

“A grilled steak with bordelaise sauce,” Dave replied with a shitty pompous accent. The ridiculousness of that was outweighed only by the smirk on his face. “Terezi said she’d try and drop off the food, by the way.”

“That would be nice,” I commented.  Then, as a playful afterthought, I added, “I hope she doesn’t decide she wants you back when she gets here. That would really kind of suck.”

To my surprise, Dave shrugged. He pulled off his shades, stuck them in his pocket, and put on his plain glasses. “Honestly, she talked about you a lot. I’m pretty sure she sort of regretted letting you leave.” After pointing that out, Dave made it a point to avoid my gaze. “I mean, really, you’re a better catch than I am at the moment.”

“And what sort of bullshit thought process led you to that conclusion?” I implored.

Another shrug. “I’m just saying that if you ever feel like dating someone else, go on ahead. It’s not my place to stop you from it. Besides, you can do a lot better than me. Hell, I’m pretty sure you can even do better than Terezi.”

At that point, I felt the need to point out a few facts. “Okay,” I sighed, “First of all: I don’t intend on breaking up with you any time soon. I don’t exactly plan on getting married any time soon, either, though, so maybe you’ll get your wish at some point down the road. Second, as great as Terezi is, she was still the founder of the Aspiring Legal Workers Club and unofficial president of the disturbing side of the art club, so I wouldn’t exactly say that she’s the beacon of social highs.”

“Yeah,” Dave replied. At the very least, my comment cheered him up. He cracked a small smile. “That’s true. So I guess we have that much settled?”

“I sure as hell hope so,” I replied. At the same time, I moved my chair around the small circular table so that I was sitting beside him and to his right. (Though there was nothing actually wrong with his left side, he hated people standing there. Apparently, it made him nervous. Again, I don’t fucking know.) Once I had settled down in my new spot, the snail platter arrived.

Naturally, Dave’s instinctive reaction was to pick up one of the shells and demonstrate for me how to use what he called a “snail probe” to get to whatever slimy, shitty sustenance was inside. With the aforementioned fork in one hand and a shell held firmly between the clasps of the provided tongs in the other, he began his lesson. “Okay, so, you’ve got to get this shit at just the right angle or it won’t work. And you know what sucks worse than dropping your snail is scraping out shell.”

“Dave?” I began.

He ignored me. “So, once you got it at that angle, you just stick this probe in and…” A flick of his right wrist (apparently, the wrong hand traditionally, but it was the only one that still had that function) yielded an oddly shaped pile of slime that tumbled forth and splatted grotesquely on the plate. “And that’s how you eat a snail, darlin’.” He cut the snail in half with his fork and slid the other half to my side of the plate.

By then, though, I was wholly disgusted by the idea of eating anything that just seeped out of a shell. “I’d really rather not,” I grumbled.

“They’re not still alive,” Dave pointed out. “And they’re seasoned in garlic and butter. You like both of those things, don’t you?”

“I thought we already discussed the fact that I’m allergic to garlic,” I sighed.

Dave smirked. “Oh, yeah. I forgot that you’re a vampire. You’re pretty tan for one, though. You’ve been doing a great job at that undead sunbathing.”

“A pretty significant portion of my family is from goddamn India, you jackass.” I paused, returned a smirk of my own, and folded my arms across my chest. “Again, we’ve discussed this.”

Dave laughed. It was one of those mischievous chuckles that popped up from time to time. Then, without any actual warning, he grabbed me by the knot of my tie and pulled me into an abrupt kiss.

I realized then that it had been quite a while since we’d actually kissed. The last kiss we shared was just before he woke up in time for The Shit, Part Two (I can’t believe I said that). And that kiss had been one of those brief peck-on-the-cheek deals. This, though, this was real. And it was just as thrillingly perfect as the first. When we finally parted a minute or so later, a wry grin was spread across his face.

“That’s before I eat this slimy little shit. I’d rather not give you an allergic reaction on our first date. Then I’d officially be the worst boyfriend to exist,” he snickered. Having said this, he picked up both halves of the snail on his fork and slurped them down.

“You’re a fucking disgrace to human society,” I grumbled, elbowing him playfully in the side.

He winked at me as he freed another slimy morsel from its shell. “You just aren’t classy enough to enjoy the real shit that life has to offer,” he responded with a wide grin and a twirl of an invisible mustache.

Despite my best efforts not to, I laughed. “Keep your disgusting slimy piles of shit away from me, you creep.”

“Says the guy who puts ketchup on hot dogs. What a clueless asshole you are,” he scoffed. He opened his mouth to say more, but something managed to catch his attention first. He managed to shovel down the snail he’d just freed before continuing with a new topic. “Terezi’s coming. Act natural.”

“Dave, she literally has no perception of light. You don’t need to act natural,” I sighed.

Dave, however, was busy shoveling the rest of his snails down his throat. I guess he assumed that Terezi would take them from him or something. Although, seeing as she once ate a dung beetle for a dare, it wouldn’t surprise me if she did. Still, they were all gone by the time Terezi set our plates down.

“If I didn’t get those right, switch them yourselves. I’ve got more important things to do than cater to you two and your weird date,” she commented. Whereas her voice alone would lead most to believe she was being serious, the fact that she was smiling said otherwise. (In a way, it was sort of funny. Terezi was always pretty heavy-handed with her visual body language.)

“Nice to see you finally stopped eating chalk, Terezi,” I pointed out. “At least you make other people eat it, now.”

Her lips curved into an absentminded smirk. “All my meals are very low in chalk content, actually. I allow no more than one ounce of pure red chalk in any given meal.”

“Well, then, that explains why they won’t tell us what the ingredients are for some of this shit,” Dave snickered.

Terezi pushed her pointed mirrored shades up enough for us to see her wink. Then, she dropped them back down as she replied, “Nice to hear your voice, Dave. You too, Karkat. Unfortunately, the assholes in the kitchen need me more than you assholes. They’re a wreck without actual guidance.” With that, she offered us a curt wave as she turned and wandered back into the kitchen.

From there, the rest of the night was thoroughly enjoyable. The meal was delicious and Dave’s company was unsurprisingly fantastic. In fact, up until the moment he pulled himself into the car to leave, it felt like he was back to his usual antics.

And, then, because I can’t even think about something without it going wrong, he decided to drop some emotional firebombs on me.

“You know, Karkat,” he began, his eyes locked on the road ahead. “As much as I’d love to say I wouldn’t wish this happened any differently, sometimes I just think about the things I’m missing out on and it just feels…” here, he paused. He searched his mind for something to say before just sighing and deciding on “meh.” That was a typical emotion for him. I’d even given up on trying to ask him what he meant and just classified “meh” as a legitimate emotion during my third week with him.

Still, I tried to get him to elaborate. “Like what?”

“Oh, goddamn, darlin’, can we not pull the Rose psycho-babble bullshit over on me right now?” he groaned.

“I’m just asking. You don’t have to answer.”

He sighed. For some reason, telling him he didn’t need to answer usually worked. Really, any sort of reverse psychology worked near-consistently with him. “I don’t know. Like, if we get married, who’s going to sweep your stupid ass up on the dance floor? I mean, I used to be a pretty good party dancer, if you know what I’m saying.”

“If you’re implying that you could make it as a certified male dancer, I’d rather not know the details,” I sighed. “Anything else?”

He shrugged. “I guess I’m kind of bummed about not getting to be a stuntman like Bro,” he admitted. His gaze darted briefly to the left and right. He switched on the turn signal and turned onto our street. “Sometimes I’ll just think of stuff like that and be like, ‘Oh, that kind of sucks.’ You know what I mean?”

“Honestly, I don’t,” I shrugged. By then, we were pulling into the parking lot. “But I wouldn’t exactly cross out my life goals quite yet. Jade’s still helping, remember?”

He nodded and set his chair out beside the car before transitioning from the driver’s seat to his wheelchair. “Yeah.” A small half-smile worked its way onto his features. “I kind of forgot about that. Thanks for the reminder, you ass.”

“Any time,” I sighed.

By then, it was getting cold. The usual fall air was tinged with the remnants of a storm to our north and every gust of wind brought stinging cold with it. So, it made sense for Dave and I to hurry the fuck up and get back inside.

It was well after 10:00. We were both tired and we ended up curled up in bed together. I drifted off to sleep holding his hand, our foreheads gently touching, our breath mingling between us as we huddled under the covers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one got a lot longer than anticipated and it may just be the longest chapter I've ever written but okay. Hope you enjoy. Comments, concerns, and feedback are always welcome here or [my blog](http://tennantstype40.tumblr.com/ask).


	13. Blanket Forts and Comfort Food

After the date, fate finally decided to give us a break.

Dave took up playing guitar again. Having a supporting brace on his wrist didn’t improvise his playing at all, which he was pretty damned pleased with. (“It’s one constant,” he once said.) He landed a regular job playing at a local bar from noon until 9:30 on weekdays. It brought in little more than pocket change in comparison to his mounting medical bills, but Rose and John were more than happy to help. Every now and then, we even got a few hundred dollars of contribution from Terezi.

A few weeks after he was hired, I got a position as a busboy in the same bar. Around then, I decided to start keeping a personal diary. I don’t know why I did, but I knew I had always wanted to try and keep a record of my mundane life. So, I pretty much gave myself a distinct frame of reference for any future dates.

For example, my first entry was made on October 10th, so that’s when I started working. While most of the entries were admittedly embarrassing records of where Dave and I hid during breaks to make out, some of them were rather significant. On the 15th of October, Dave and I got our first paychecks. Even together, it still equated to only a small portion of our usual expenses, but it was better than nothing.

By early November, though, Dave decided that playing at a bar wasn’t his thing. Aside from that, his stint there had earned him a decent local reputation. He somehow managed to secure himself a place at the local YMCA as a music instructor for children.  I stayed at the bar, though.

I sat in on some of his lessons and, despite his rough in-your-face kind of personality, he worked surprisingly well with kids. He particularly liked, as he put it, “how kids don’t give a shit about what they say.” That is to say, he felt a lot more comfortable around children too young to brush him aside or give him special treatment as soon as they saw the chair. In his own words, “People who ask are significantly cooler than the ones who don’t and just kind of give you the stink eye.”

Our hours were similar and the bar was on the way back from the YMCA, so things worked out perfectly. We’d carpool and he’d drop me off on his way. He’d pick me up again on his way home.

As a whole, things were going damned fine. It was surprising, but, apparently, letting Dave teach kids how to play guitar turned out to be the best idea I’d never had. (I never told him that Rose was the one who got the job. She knew one of the people at the YMCA and pulled a few strings.) It did wonders for his confidence. Kids loved his policy of teaching to play what _they_ wanted instead of a rigid set of songs, and parents couldn’t get enough of his undeniable charisma.

Aside from that, his employment offered us health insurance and free membership. While I wasn’t really interested in the athletic activities offered, Dave signed up for an adaptive martial arts class as soon as he noticed the listing. And, again, it did great things for his confidence. Since he enjoyed demonstrating his newfound combat skills on me, however, it did little for my personal safety. Not surprisingly, he was well liked in the class, too.

_**When Dave picked me up on his way home from work on the** _  
_**15 th of November, he was in pretty rough shape.** _  
_**He sported a black eye,** _  
_**a variety of scabbed-over cuts,** _  
_**a plethora of bruises,** _  
_**and a thoroughly bloodied nose.** _

“How was your day?” he grumbled as I got into the car.

“Probably better than yours,” I pointed out. “What the fuck happened to you?”

He sighed and glanced over to make sure I’d buckled my belt before pushing against the handle located behind the steering wheel and to the lower left. The car started moving forward. He, however, remained silent.

“Really, you stubborn ass, I’d kind of like to know what kind of shit you’ve gotten yourself into,” I pointed out. While I teased him about getting beaten up, though, Dave was a more than capable fighter. He was fully capable of knocking the shit out of anyone who dared to mess with him—as he so kindly demonstrated on me. For someone to have beaten him up that badly, well… It couldn’t have been a schoolyard scrap or a drunken brawl. The fingerless glove sticking out of his chest pocket and the bloodied bandaged wrapped around his right hand made that much clear.

Even so, he refused to talk. As I watched for a response, he simply shrugged. He pulled back on the handle to ease the car to a stop and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

Before he began, though, I interjected. “The motorcycle deal is still on,” I pointed out.

A frustrated growl escaped him. He shoved the pack back into his pocket and pushed on the handle to get us moving again. “Damn.” Around this point, an SUV abruptly cut into our lane. Dave leaned on the horn, flipped them the bird, and made it pretty obvious that he didn’t give a damn about the consequences of road rage. When the driver in front of us flipped us off in return, Dave laid on the horn for a few more seconds. Then, he turned into the adjacent lane and sped off until that particular car was out of sight.

As he merged into the appropriate lane, I guess he decided that he might as well admit to whatever the hell happened. At the very least, he started talking. “You know how I told you I got that C. F. Martin from Bro?” he mused.

“Yeah?” I looked at him to try and gauge his emotions, but his face was as passive as ever.

It remained just as stoic as he continued.  “I loved that damned thing. Bro went all out with that gift, and it paid off.”

While I wasn’t sure where he was going with the story, I encouraged him nonetheless. “Looked like a normal guitar to me,” I admitted.

A small smile worked its way onto his face, though it vanished in less than half the time it took to make itself known. “I never did tell you how much money that thing was worth, did I?”

“No.”

“A new one today is about seven grand. Bro got it with a custom carbon fiber case. So, if you wanted that thing brand new, it’d be around nine or ten grand.” His voice was a steady monotone.

As he spoke, I started to realize what he was getting at. He took that damned thing everywhere. I’d repeatedly told him not to. I’d assumed, however, it was only worth something closer to five thousand or so. With that assumption clearly blown out of the water, it didn’t take much to assume that someone with more guitar knowledge than myself had taken notice of Dave’s beloved guitar. Honestly, I was terrified of where the story was going—I felt like I _knew_ where it was going. But I still asked. “So…?”

“Don’t worry. I’ve still got it” His voice was still unnervingly flat. His eyes were locked on the road. He moved like clockwork—with a sense of unnatural precision and a lack of feeling—and he never once deviated from the disconcerting monotone. “I fought them for it. It’s pretty banged up. I’m guessing the repair will be pretty damn expensive.”

I sighed. Unsure of what to say, I let an unnerving silence fill the air. The gentle sway of a plain black crow-shaped mirror ornament—a trinket of Dave’s that Rose somehow managed to find in the old car before it was crushed—was the only thing that took my mind off of the situation. And, even then, the silence was unbearable.

After a few minutes, though, Dave mercifully continued talking. His voice started to waver. It didn’t surprise me. He’d always act completely impartial about an issue that truly bothered him until he couldn’t hold the emotions in any longer. This time, it was just close enough to his heart that the emotions boiled over faster than normal. “Probably about as much to buy a new one, really. And I’m not asking Rose for any more money.” As he spoke, his grip tightened on the wheel. His knuckles turned a ghostly shade of white.

“It’s no big deal, Dave. You’ve still got it and it can get fixed.” I tried to reassure him.

By then, the tears he’d been holding back had started to fall. His vocal composure fell apart. “Yeah, but it’s pretty much trashed, now. A bunch of scrap metal and shit. Hell, the repairs will probably be double what Bro even paid for the shitty thing.” He sighed and tapped the fingers of his left hand against the handle that controlled the gas and brakes. “Fuck. I can’t believe it. My fucking luck, right?”

“It’s already November, your birthday and Christmas are both coming up,” I mumbled.

“The problem isn’t that it’s broken, it’s that I couldn’t fucking keep it from getting ruined,” Dave interjected. “Even if it does get fixed, it won’t be the same. They’ll have to basically redo the entire body and the neck is pretty much scrap wood. It’ll be an entirely new guitar and… Fuck. Fucking shit.” Though I didn’t think it was possible, his grip tightened on the controls. A spot of bright red appeared on the bandage around his hand. It grew larger. It seeped through the dressing and began staining the sleeve of his grey suit jacket.

“Dave, you’re bleeding a—” I tried to point out the problem.

At that point, though, another car cut into our lane. It pulled in, stayed for a few seconds, and then continued into the next lane without ever turning on a single indicator light. And, I guess Dave was already at his breaking point, because his reaction was nothing but unrestrained anger. He leaned on the horn and shoved down on the main engine control lever with an ungodly amount of force. As we passed the other driver, he flipped them off and continued speeding down the road.

I only ever checked the speedometer once. When I realized we were going at least ten miles above the speed limit, I stopped looking. Really, I was surprised we didn’t get pulled over. If I had to guess, Dave was taking a less popular route home so he could get away with the bullshit he was pulling.

Though, from there, the ride was only another seven minutes, it was terrifying. It wasn’t quite as horrific as the motorcycle ride, but it was still a bit unnerving to know that I was barreling down the road with someone who already had a pretty dodgy track record for driving. The fact that he was pissed off enough to ignore that he was bleeding all over his steering wheel also didn’t ease any nerves.

By the time we pulled into the parking lot, he was livid. It was completely justified, of course, but it was still terrifying. He pretty much forced his chair open and threw it out onto the parking lot pavement before swinging into the seat. He took special care of the guitar case, though—it was like he was handling some sort of religious relic and, to him, I guess it sort of was one.

When we were inside the apartment, I got him to show me the damage. While he’d managed to salvage most of the broken pieces and put them back in the case, the scuffle had obviously ruined the instrument. Most of the body was a tangled mass of splintered wood. Strings stuck out wildly and the neck was little more than a thin sliver of wood clinging on by a hair’s width of the material left on the base. The electronic components were mostly trashed, too.

I tried my best to give him some small comforts, though. Seeing as the heating in the building sucked, that started with making a serving of hot chocolate for both of us. For dinner, I managed to find a single burger and scrounge together enough ingredients to make him his favorite meal—a burger with fried eggs and diced onion. (I ended up eating Salisbury steak.) Then, with the food and hot chocolate ready, I joined him on the bed and wrapped both of us in a blanket. Again, I picked his favorite—a thick, red blanket that Rose apparently knitted for him when he moved in with her. (In a way, it was sort of sweet. Despite his constant verbal insistence that he didn’t really care about her, his favorite blanket was still the one she made for him. Really, as much as they argued, they really did care for each other. Rose had distanced herself from the family and Dave had been essentially disowned when he was sent to Rose’s house. Later, Dave admitted that—at the very least—he considered Rose to be his last actual family member.)

It all managed to calm him down enough for me to do some shoddy repair work on his palm. After some peeling and cursing, the old bandages finally came off and I wrapped a new one around the wound. Before I did, though, I took a quick look at it. Inspecting it further, I found it to be a wide but shallow slash which ran diagonally upwards from the base of his thumb to the space between his middle and ring finger.

Then, to my surprise, Dave started to open up about his feelings. He spoke only of those pertaining to the guitar, but that was still a significant amount more than usual.

“It’s not so much that it’s broken,” he admitted at some point, “But I’ll be you my entire five dollars of life savings that they wouldn’t have fucked with me before all this shit happened. Y’know?”

“I’m not sure. You’re pretty intimidating as you are,” I replied. “And you’re a damn good fighter, too. I would know. In case you’re forgotten, I usually end up your demonstration target.”

A quiet laugh escaped him. It was too dark to see him, but I liked to think that he’d at least shown a hint of the sought-after Strider smile. When he responded, he sounded a little more at ease. “Oh. Yeah, I almost forgot about that. And it was your own fault for coming up behind me like that. It was a natural reaction, darlin’.”

“Well, if I remember correctly, that natural reaction drew a good deal of blood. I mean, you want to try bashing your head against a pair of metal footrests? That is not a pleasant feeling, you know,” I pointed out.

“Honest mistake,” he sighed.

It was my turn to laugh. I started to reply, too, but he cut me off with a sudden kiss. This was followed by the sensation of him pinning me to the bed with his hands on my shoulders. Presumably, he was grinning like a dumbass as he did so.

“As much as I hate to say it, Karkat,” he mumbled, “I have to admit that… Well, you’re pretty great.”

I gently shoved him off of me, though I found myself grinning at the sheer absurdity of the situation. How had this started as discussing the destruction of Dave’s last remaining tie to his dead brother and ended up like this? I didn’t know then and I still don’t know now; but I knew I kind of liked it. “You’re not too bad, either, you pompous sack of shit.”

He countered with another quiet laugh before dropping into bed beside me. He draped his arm around me and yawned. Within the next fifteen minutes, he was asleep. His soft white hair brushed against my neck and chin with and the smell of that idiotic oak-scented shampoo he always used permeated every breath I took. (Apparently, he thought the oak wood lumberjack smell suited him, which it kind of did.)

Just before I drifted to sleep, though, he briefly woke up. I felt him brush some of my hair out of my face. I felt one of those affectionate yet awkward shoulder pats he sometimes gave me when he thought I was asleep, and I heard his voice. “You know, you’re pretty cool. And I sure as hell hope you’re asleep, because I’m just going to go right on ahead and say… Well, I guess, in some sort of weird way, I love you.” Then, I felt the bed shift slightly as he rolled over.

I remember wrapping my arms him once he was situated and whispering back, “You know what, asshole? I hate to admit it, but I love you, too.” Then, after taking a moment to enjoy the fact that he grumbled “fuck” when he realized I was awake, I fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [shrugs] The format changed but at least I had a sort of excuse. Not really. I just decided to start writing it this way because, honestly, this fic is pretty experimental. Thanks for all the positive feedback, though. Any more commentary and feedback is welcome, too.


	14. Snow, Birthdays, and Bedsheets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are mentions of sex but I added the asexuality tag for a reason. I don't enjoy writing nitty-gritty sex scenes and asexual Karkat is a headcanon of mine, so I bonded the two together. Sorry if you were hoping for anything. Whoops. But you can still imagine. I guess...

While Dave was understandably upset about the guitar, he refused to let anyone take it until he could pay for the repairs out of his own pocket. (I figured it would be a long, _long_ time before any of that happened since he still had to pay off his hospital bills. Rose covered some of the expenses, but even she couldn’t cover everything without going broke. Aside from that, Dave refused to allow her to pay everything. Not that that’s surprising in any way; he’s a stubborn asshole.) Until then, he used a more modest Yamaha brand guitar.

Naturally, when he returned to work on Monday, people were pretty pissed about him getting the shit beaten out of him. While there were a few attempts to set up fundraisers to repair it, Dave shut them all down when he stuck a notice up in the staff lounge that he wouldn’t take any money. Again, nothing surprising there. Stubborn asshole.

I noticed, though, that he set a large jar on the table by his side of the bed. Affixed to the jar was a crude label: “GUITAR REPAIR FUNDS.” Every now and then, he’d drop some spare change in. From time to time, he’d drop more. Even so, it was going just as slowly as I expected it would. He’d only collected twenty dollars over the first two weeks of the jar’s existence. To speed it up a little, I started putting money in when he wasn’t looking.

This kind of ruined Rose’s plan for his birthday, and we ended up going to search for gifts on the last day of November. I took a day off of work and Rose picked me up from the apartment. From there, we pretty much hit up anywhere we could think of—big-name stores, little family-owned stores, thrift shops, antique stores—we went pretty much anywhere that looked interesting. We found our gifts before the time I knew Dave would be home, though, and I was able to hide mine before he got home. Rose bought him an album by that Django Reinhardt asshole.

While we were out, though, she used to time to warn me of the fact that December was a pretty rough month for Dave. I mean, it didn’t take a whole lot of psychological evaluation to make that obvious. I’d already known he still wasn’t over the whole thing, even a decade later. What I didn’t know, though, was how much of that emotional crap was still left.

For one thing, there was apparently one rule when it came to December around Dave. Christmas—and the holidays in general—didn’t exist. In a way, I could sort of understand. The last time he saw his brother was the day after Christmas. Still, I was told that, if I had a Christmas present, I was to give it to him on his birthday or up until the week prior to Christmas. Decorations—something we didn’t have anyhow—were banned.

Even then, there was no way to completely avoid the entire situation.

Thanksgiving fell on the 28th. As usual, holiday advertisements came on pretty often afterwards. (They’d been on before, of course, but they were pretty much everything from Thanksgiving onwards.) Window displays were about the same. The kids he taught brought it up when they saw him on Monday, too. When he came home that night, he looked like hell. He refused any food and went straight to bed.

Still, he woke up in a good mood. And that was great, because that day happened to be his birthday.

_**By the morning of December 3 rd,** _   
_**a blanket of snow covered the ground.** _   
_**Delicate patterns of ice laced the windows.** _

Though I’d planned on making Dave breakfast, he managed to wake up before me. I woke up to the sound of the record player in the kitchen playing oddly mellow swing music—something he claimed to like only in an ironic way. (Not that it mattered. He still had enough other qualifications to make him a massive dork.) Seeing as it was cold, I put on a pair of sweatpants and a black sweater before wandering out into the main living area.

I found him sprawled out on the sofa with an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. He was half asleep. I could only presume he had gone out to smoke, decided that he didn’t feel like dealing with the snow, and tried to smoke inside. Then, at some point before getting his lighter out, he started to go to sleep instead.

My natural reaction to that was to walk past him and grab the cigarette out of his mouth as I went by.

That managed to snap him back to a fully conscious state, though, seeing as he jumped when I pulled it away. “Fuck! When did you wake up?” he mumbled.

“When it was convenient for me,” I shrugged and tossed the unlit cigarette into the trash. Then, I went to look in the fridge. We had a few cups of yogurt, some lunch meat, some apples, apple juice, and Coca-Cola. So, really, we had nothing. As I decided what the hell to do, I continued the conversation. “Hey, did you get something to eat yet, asshole?”

“Mm, yeah… I think so. Yeah.” He paused briefly before adding, “I had an apple. Maybe more like three. But fuck it.”

“Please don’t fuck the apple,” I grumbled as I decided to just be trash and eat straight up lunch meat. “So, what? We ran out of milk for cereal? How long have you been up?”

“Something like two hours,” Dave replied. “Why?”

I peeled away a handful of the packaged ham slices and turned to face him. By then, he’d switched from the sofa to his wheelchair. Even though he had his own laptop, he’d started playing a game of solitaire with an actual deck of cards on the dining room table. I dismissed that as him being himself. Either he didn’t feel like bothering to get the laptop or he had his own shitty reason. So, ignoring that, I just jumped straight to my reply. “You didn’t go out and get more?”

A wry grin worked its way onto his face. “Nope,” he shrugged. “You’re the one who says I have bad luck on the road. Obviously, that means I shouldn’t be going out when there’s snow everywhere.”

I sighed and shoved some ham into my mouth. It tasted pretty decent, though I found it a bit too watery for my liking. Still, seeing as we bought the cheapest we could get, I couldn’t complain. “True,” I admitted. “And congrats on surviving another year, you goddamn nitwit.”

At this, he paused. He looked up from his nonsensical car game and stared at me briefly before a look of realization appeared. “Oh. Fuck. Yeah, it is my birthday, isn’t it? Wow. Holy shit.”

I’d already admitted to him that I never found him an affordable gift. He didn’t mind much. Really, when I told him, he laughed and commented about how “motherfucking broke” we both were. The real surprise, though, was that I’d gotten a sweaty robotics and horse enthusiast of mine to agree to modify his old bike for dirt cheap. (That friend happened to be Equius, who was pretty cool overall and genuinely sympathetic to the entire situation.)

So, at that point, I decided to break the news. “So, I still have something for you, you idiot. I mean…” I wandered over to the sofa and took a seat across from him. “I don’t have it, but if we can pay for some of the parts, I have a friend who’ll fix your bike up for you.”

Judging by the smirk on his face, Dave was pleased with this news. When he replied, though, there was a pointed note of skepticism in his voice. “How much are we looking at, darlin’? Because, as nice as it is that you talked some poor fucker into basically giving away their mechanical expertise, we’ve still got a broken guitar to fix.”

“He’s cool enough to do it for ten grand,” I shrugged.

“So, about the same as the guitar,” Dave grumbled. “How long will he keep this deal up?”

“Indefinitely. Like I said, he’s pretty cool. Real sweaty, though. Don’t shake his hand if you have a choice.”

This elicited a quiet chuckle from Dave. “Then, how about we put that down for the third thing we’ll be doing once I’m no longer paying for the privilege of not being dead?”

“That sounds reasonable,” I shrugged. I already knew he’d want to fix the guitar first. It was a logical conclusion. He’d be more interested in something with deeper personal connection than a replaceable bike. Still, I felt good about managing to secure a deal.

“So,” he began, moving towards the kitchen as he spoke. “Since we’re snowed in, what do you want to do? Because I have no idea what to do.”

I shrugged. “Seems like a nice day to have some hot chocolate and just fuck around, doesn’t it?”

He grinned. “Yeah. That seems like a good suggestion. For once, you had a good idea. Good job, you clueless fuck.”

I ignored his playful ribbing and waited for him to finish making the hot chocolate. (I’d offered to help before, and been turned down. I’d since adopted a policy of only helping when he asked or if he was doing something that put him in obvious risk of physical injury.) When he returned, we made the unanimous decision to use the day as a way to go through his collection of shitty-looking movies.

Aside from the obvious _Sharknado_ , we managed to watch two older movies that were so spectacularly bad they made _Sharknado_ look like a fairly decent independent film. The first was a British horror festival of bankrupt special effects called _The Abominable Doctor Phibes_. If I had to guess, they spent their entire budget on the sets and costumes and then threw fifty dollars at the effects team. The second was an American film called _Phantom of the Paradise_ which, contrary to my initial belief, was not a recreation of the classic French novel. Rather, it was about an hour and a half of drug-addled glam rock bullshit. Dave loved it. I didn’t really enjoy it. (It wasn’t wholly terrible, though. Just… bad.)

For dinner, we managed to find some junk food in the closet we used as a food pantry. We had Pringles and tortilla chips. Not the healthiest options, but that’s about all we had.

From there, we just generally screwed around. We goaded each other and slandered each other’s familial names. And, somehow, that led us into the bedroom.

Before we get into all that bullshit, though, I need to clarify a few things.

First of all, to be completely honest, I’ve never been interested in sex. I don’t hate it. I don’t enjoy it. And, yes, I had sex with Terezi. (According to her, I’m terrible at it.) I’ve never really thought about it, though. And, yes, I realize that’s a bit strange. But it never actually crossed my mind. If I have to guess, I’ve always cared more about the romance than the actual lovemaking. It’s just not my thing.

Secondly, despite being semi-permanently catheterized and having lost all feeling “down there” (as he called it), Dave was still fully capable of getting an erection. He also still had a pretty decent sex drive. At some point, he’d developed a particular enthusiasm for more intimate kisses. Apparently, he found that the sensation of tongue-battling was arousing.

Now that we’ve cleared through that somewhat off-putting topic, I’ll say that there was a legitimate point to that spiel. Because, apparently, Dave had been keeping it in his pants for a while and—while I also initially believed he just couldn’t do it—he decided that birthday sex was how he’d like to start experimenting.

So, really, when he asked that night to repay me for all the French kissing, I admitted that I’d be fine just letting him do his thing. And he sure as hell did. I won’t really discuss the nitty-gritty—like I’ve been saying, it’s not my thing. I don’t even really remember the details. I just know that he was a damned fine guy when it came to oral. And I’m being completely honest there. While I didn’t crave sex any more than I did before that night, it was a thoroughly enjoyable experience.

What really got me, though, were the more intimate moments. I loved how he could pin me to the bed one minute and offer the most gentle touch the next. The way his breath—tinged with the slight aroma of tobacco smoke—brushed against my neck and face was the best feeling in the world. And, really, he was just damned great at every aspect of the whole thing.

As much as I’d hate to have to say it to his face, he really is one hell of a guy.

And that was my only thought as he finally came to a rest at my side and rested his forehead against mine. It was the last thought that crossed my mind as I fell asleep in his arms.


	15. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this chapter is the reason for the added depression tag. Yes, this fic is pretty experimental. Thanks for all the positive feedback though!

To begin with a cliché: life is a series of emotional ups and downs. Life _with Dave_ was a series of unpredictable and often drastic ups and downs. I’d come to accept that fact pretty quickly. He was under a hell of a lot of stress and pressure. Aside from that, he had to contend with the fact that people constantly decided that he needed to be helped with damned near everything.

Really, since I started hanging out with Dave, I noticed a lot of odd things that people tended to do. And a lot of those things reasonably pissed him off. The most offensive of these (what I guess would be) mistakes was to assume I was Dave’s caregiver and just brush him off completely. We’d had the occasional cashier completely overlook Dave and tell me to talk to him for them. Out of all of the social blunders that happened, this one pissed Dave off the most. (It still pisses him off, but he’s learned to actually talk it out instead of try and chokeslam them to the ground.)

There were also the little things that rubbed Dave the wrong way. Since his spinal stroke, he’d gotten more accustomed to his wheelchair. He’d come to see it as an extension of himself and his personal space. So, when people decided that it was a convenient armrest, he didn’t take it very well. Touching the chair basically had its own category of mistakes, to be honest. He could put up with the kids he taught, seeing as he could instruct them otherwise; adults were the real problem.

Normally, these things were just daily annoyances. Dave vented about them for a while and then he’d forget. I guess December did a number on his patience, though. When he went to work on Wednesday, he was sent home with a warning not to snap at coworkers. Apparently, someone had used him as an armrest again and he got fed up with them.

To be honest, I think the kids were the only thing that kept him from just completely abandoning normalized human society. December revolved around throwing himself fully into his job. He worked late and spoke little. His usual spark faded the minute he left work, really. Talks on the way home turned into prolonged stretches of tense silence.

On the 19th, he was sent home early after snapping at another coworker. (Really, they were well-meaning people. They just got a little careless at times.) After dropping me off at the apartment, I can only assume he went to use his newfound legal ability to purchase alcohol, because he showed up two hours later with three bottles of whiskey. He missed his therapy.

**_I never went to work on the 20 th._ **  
**_Instead, I woke up to the sound of Dave playing guitar._ **  
**_I found him in the living area,_ **  
**_plucking away at the acoustic Yamaha._ **

After seeing the events of the first time he got drunk (the day before), I’d thrown out the rest. He’d only needed to have a few glasses before the alcohol started clashing with his medication. He ended up on the floor in agony, insistent upon the fact that another drink would numb the pain. Naturally, I refused.

So, to find him playing the guitar that morning was admittedly shocking. My only guess was that he was doing it just to have something to take his mind off of the fact that he couldn’t have most of his usual medication until twenty-four hours after he last had alcohol.

“Hey?” I announced my arrival, wondering whether he’d notice.

He merely looked up at me and shrugged. “I can’t even fucking drink. I’m twenty-one and I can’t fucking drink without fucking myself up,” he grumbled.

“Alcohol isn’t the only perk of being twenty-one,” I tried to point out.

“Yeah, but it was the one I wanted,” Dave snapped back. “You know how much shit I have to put up with on a daily basis? Jesus fucking Christ the patronizing commentary and whispering behind my back never fucking stop.”

I sighed. He was in his favored armchair. He’d parked his wheelchair just off to the side. “Okay. This looks like it’s going to be a long talk,” I mumbled. “You mind if I use your chair?”

He shrugged. “Thanks for asking. More than some people do. For you, yeah. I don’t give a damn,” he grumbled. With that said, he stuck the guitar into the case to his left. He nudged the lid shut and scooted himself up onto the cushion a bit more before continuing with his speech. “Anyhow, it’s just gotten really fucking annoying. You know what I mean?”

I shook my head and took a seat in his wheelchair. Normally, he didn’t let people do that; at home, though, he was usually cool with me using it if he was in his armchair. “Not really. No.”

“Just… I hate being treated like I’m special, you know?” he shrugged and folded his arms across his chest. He locked his gaze on some nonspecific point on the ceiling. “And when they don’t treat me like I’m special, they just kind of ignore me. Like, I know I’m not on their eye level, but I’m still there.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I’ve noticed that, too.”

“Great. It’s not just me,” Dave commented, adding a wavering half-smile to punctuate his statement. “But, like, why? And… I mean... Even John treats me weird now. He didn’t before. Maybe because we all believed I’d be back up and walking around on a regular basis. That’s also not just me, is it? And is it just me that everything is so damned loud?”

Thinking about it, it was really pretty obvious. We’d only seen John a few times since the second incident, and he seemed a lot less comfortable around Dave. As a matter of fact, even he—as clueless as he could be—was being pretty damned rude. He’d started avoiding meeting us and, when he did, he often refrained from ever actually looking straight at Dave.

So, naturally, I agreed with his former commentary. “Yeah. John’s been a massively boorish dick lately,” I shrugged. “And you’re hungover as hell, you reckless bastard. Nothing’s loud. It’s just you.”

Dave let forth a huff of annoyance. “Jesus fucking Christ, though, everything is so goddamn loud. Get up, I need to take a shit.” His voice lacked the usual hint of smooth charm that it usually carried. Then, it was gruff and tense.

I sighed and stood up, took a step to the side, and watched as he maneuvered himself out of the armchair and into his wheelchair. “You going to keep talking while you shit or do I get to take a break?”

By then, he was advancing towards the bathroom with remarkable speed. Even so, he looked over his shoulder long enough to call back, “Stay outside the door. You don’t get a damned break.”

“So should I call in and say I’m not coming to work?” I asked.

He shrugged and disappeared behind the bathroom door. “Yeah. Probably. Today’s going to be a long goddamn day, really,” he grumbled as the door clicked shut.

I sighed and phoned work to say that I’d be taking care of Dave. Not that they’d give me any sort of leeway. He still didn’t count as family, so they didn’t really give a damn what I was doing as long as they could withhold my pay. They were already pissed off at him for quitting on them, anyhow. They probably wouldn’t have even paid me if I took a day off for his funeral, to be honest. Still, I felt like it was better to let them know that I wasn’t just skipping work.

Once that was finished, I pulled a folding chair up to the bathroom door and took a seat. Seeing as Dave’s trips to the bathroom were rarely any less than twenty minutes, I didn’t exactly want to be standing the whole time. Settling into the seat, I called out to him, “Okay. What were you saying?”

“I don’t know,” he grumbled. “What the fuck was I saying?”

“Something about John. Then you needed to take a shit,” I said flatly.

Somehow, that managed to draw a quiet laugh from him. That glimmer of happiness dimmed quickly, though. “Yeah. Now I remember. You agreed that he’s been acting pretty shitty, right? It’s like someone pointed out to him that I’m in a wheelchair, because that seems to be all he’s concerned about any more. And it wasn’t like that before.”

“Yeah,” I sighed.

“Really, it kind of hurts… You know?” he muttered. “Like, I don’t fucking understand. What’s the fucking difference? I’m still me… I guess…” Here, he paused. I could hear him fumbling with the medical supplies we kept under the sink. He cursed under his breath. “Dammit, maybe I’m not the same. I don’t fucking know any more. Just… You don’t treat me any differently.”

“Is that why you’re dating me?” I joked.

A quiet snort of laughter came from the other side of the bathroom door. “You’re not too horrible to look at, either,” he admitted. “And you’re a surprisingly great kisser. So, no, that’s not why I’m dating you. It helps, though.” His voice started toning down again. It fell back to a more detached, disheartened tone. “Really, though, I don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

Here, there was a short minute of silence before he continued, “What it is that’s making people act so damned shitty around me. It’s not contagious. And I’m still… Am I?” He paused again. The subsequent silence hung thick in the air. It seemed to weight down everything. It wrapped around me and smothered me.

I only spoke to try and get him talking again. Anything to get rid of the damned silence. “From what I know, you haven’t changed much,” I reassured him.

He sighed. “John and I have been through a lot of bullshit together… We were friends in preschool. When Mom was too drunk to pick me up, John’s dad would pick me up. I spent more time at their place than I did at home, really. I stood up for him when he got picked on for those dorky braces he had to wear. Fuck, I took a few beatings for him. And he was there when Bro died. He helped me put together what little I had left.”

From there, his voice started to waver. “As shitty of a person as I was in high school, I still tried my best to stick up for him. He didn’t hang out with me that much once I started dabbling in drugs, but I tried to keep an eye on him. I even went to detention for one of his shitty pranks, too. I’ve been through a whole lot of goddamned shit for him and…” He paused. I heard him punch the wall and let forth a huff of frustration. “I loved that little shit once,” he admitted. “God I fucking loved him. Him and his stupid dorky grin and his jokes. And now he won’t even fucking look at me. What the fuck did I do wrong, Karkat?”

I sighed and tilted the chair I was sitting in back a bit. I instinctively ran my fingers through my hair as I tried to think of some sort of answer. “Look… I… Have you tried talking to him?” I eventually managed to say.

“He won’t fucking look at me, Karkat,” Dave snapped. “Every time I try and meet up with him he’s got some sort of birdbrained excuse for not being able to come. If he doesn’t want to be seen around me, then he should damned well tell me that.” From the other side of the door, I heard the distinct click of Dave’s lighter. I didn’t say anything about it. I figured—as much as I hated the habit—he probably needed one at the moment. “Really,” he mumbled, “I just… He’s sort of like a brother to me. I don’t want to lose him, too, Karkat. I’ve already lost Bro. I don’t think I can take losing John.”

“Yeah, I understand.”

“What did I do?” he muttered. “What did I do wrong?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I reassured him. “You know as well as I do that John’s clueless about some things. He just needs some time.”

Around then, I heard the toilet flush. I returned the chair to its rightful place and took a seat on the sofa. A few minutes later, Dave emerged from the bathroom and decided to join me. (He must have finished the cigarette, because he didn’t have it with him.) As he was getting himself situated, though, I couldn’t help but ask him, “Where did all of this come from all of a sudden?”

“Really, darlin’, it’s been eating away at me for a while.” He shrugged and pushed himself up against the backrest. “I don’t know, though. I guess it’s just one of those shitty days. Like, I’ve been having a lot of good days lately, but I guess something in me decided I’d forgotten what a bad day felt like. And getting drunk yesterday probably wasn’t my best idea.”

“Yeah, probably not,” I agreed. “I guess you learned a lesson, though.”

“Yeah,” Dave spat, “I can’t even hold down some alcohol at this point.” Here, he paused and dug his nails into my thigh. His other free hand wrapped around his shaking left leg. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he growled, “You sure you can’t give me that medicine?”

As much as I hated being the one to withhold pain pills from him, I wasn’t about to watch him spend another night like yesterday. “No. You’ve barely made it twelve hours.”

“Goddamn,” he breathed. “My head hurts my back hurts and my legs hurt. Isn’t that just fucking dandy?”

I sighed and gently wrapped my arm around his shoulder. “Just… try not to think about it?” I muttered.

“How about I light your legs on fire and we’ll see how quickly you can forget about it, dammit,” he snapped. “Fuck. It’s been this way all night. I got three hours of sleep. Don’t you dare try and tell me to forget about, dammit.”

I closed my eyes. As much as we picked on each other, we cared about one another. I’m not some sort of masochist. I didn’t enjoy seeing him in the state he was in. “I’m sorry, Dave. I don’t know what else to do. Do we need to—?”

“The only thing that will happen at the hospital is they’ll charge us up the ass for something we have here. It’s fucking useless.” Slowly, his grip on my thigh started to loosen. The movement started to calm down. His breathing evened out slightly. “See? Fucking useless.” He emphasized his point by tugging at the fabric of the sweatpants he wore.

“Can I do fucking anything to help?” I asked. In a way, I was desperate. I felt like I was letting him down.

He didn’t see it the same way, though. “You’re the last person I want getting up close and personal with my legs. Fuck off,” he mumbled.

He didn’t need to elaborate for me to get what he was saying. Despite his frequent muscle spasms, he couldn’t prevent natural muscle loss. His legs had gotten pretty thin. Since I first met him, they’d probably gone down to half their original width. He rarely mentioned it, but I knew he hated it. If he even thought I brushed against his legs at night, he was quick to push himself a little further away. As much emotional progress as he’d made over the past twenty-four weeks, he still had a lot of self-confidence that needed to come back; and, that was one of his sore spots.

“I don’t mind,” I sighed.

“Well, I do,” he shot back. “Just… You already have to sleep in the same bed as my bag of piss. You’ve had to deal with me legitimately pissing in the bed. You don’t need any other bodily issues to deal with.”

“I don’t mind,” I repeated.

He leaned into the cushions of the sofa like he was trying to disappear. He ran his fingers through his hair and chewed at his lip. “I know you don’t. But… It’s just… I’m older than you. I’m twenty-one, dammit. I hate that you have to deal with this shit. I hate that _I_ have to deal with this shit. I shouldn’t be shitting in my pants anymore, but I can’t fucking help it and I just feel…” He paused. He seemed to search the deepest reaches of his mind for something to describe his emotions; but, eventually, he settled with the usual “meh.”

I just let him keep talking. As much as I hated that he felt so shitty, I couldn’t do anything for him. I couldn’t magically fix his shattered self-image or his medical problems. All I could do was let him talk to me about them, so that’s what I did. I nodded silently to urge him to continue.

He did. And his next statement felt like a punch in the gut. “I’m such a goddamned failure,” he whispered. “I just want to be someone that Bro would approve of. Someone that—if he’s out there somewhere—he’d look at and say, ‘Yeah, that’s my little brother.’ You know?”

Again, I nodded.

By then, he was staring at his hands. He ran his right hand over the supporting brace on his left wrist. “I can’t even stand up for more than five minutes without feeling like I’m about to die. I couldn’t even protect the last thing he gave to me. I can’t even drink without turning myself into a pathetic, shaking heap. I hated myself before all this shit happened. It’s no better now.”

I frowned. Until then, I’d never been aware of Dave’s self-loathing. He’d joked about it often, but I took all the comments as just that—jokes. I never realized he was being serious. And, when he hit me with the fact that he was never really joking, it hurt. It hurt knowing that the entire time I thought he was recovering, he was really just coping. It hurt to realize that coping might be as far as he’d ever get—that he’d never fully be able to deal with all of the stress. Still, I didn’t say a word. It was his time to talk, not mine. I just listened.

“Honestly, Karkat… It sucks. I hate waking up. I hate doing damned near anything because it fucking hurts. It physically hurts. Just sitting up hurts.” He sighed and tugged nervously at the support brace on his wrist. “Really, I just want to go to sleep one night and that be it.”

I sighed and nodded. It was hard for me to maintain an impartial composure for him. Really, it was hard for me to even keep listening to him. But I did. I nodded and urged him on.

He leaned up against my shoulder and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he grumbled. “That’s really shitty of me to say. Jade’s therapy helped, but I was too busy getting drunk to go to the last damned session we had with her. And I’m not letting Rose pay for a whole year. And—” Here, he paused. He glanced at me and sighed. By then, I couldn’t help it; I’d started crying. “Oh goddammit,” he muttered. “Please don’t start the goddamn waterworks. Jesus fucking Christ now you feel bad for me, don’t you? God I hate that fucking feeling. I hate knowing that. I hate seeing people feeling bad for me.”

“Sorry,” I muttered. “I’m just… I’m worried about you. Why the fuck didn’t you say anything earlier? There’s probably something that doctors can do to—”

“It’s nerve pain,” he explained. “My injury didn’t exactly go all the way through. So now my own brain is just fucking me over. Something about some signals being able to get through but others being blocked. I don’t know. But doctors told me pretty early on that they couldn’t do a damned thing about it.”

I sighed and turned away from him. I propped my feet up on the armrest and let him lean against my back. For all that I denied my own emotions, I couldn’t stop them from coming out when they needed to. That was one of the differences between me and Dave. He’d held his frustrations for this long. I couldn’t even hold my own tears until he was done. Like Dave, though, I’d mastered the art of maintaining most of my composure when I cried. I tried to use this to my advantage. “So… It’s been like this…?”

“Since I woke up in the hospital,” he admitted. “But… The thing is, I know how shitty it would be if I just decided to give up and die. I mean, being selfish here, but I’d never see you again. And they’d have to explain to all those damned kids that I’d just rolled over and let nature do its thing. They told me when I woke up that that damned crash cut off at least ten years of my life. I’ve probably only got fifty more left. Add in the cigarettes and we’re looking at maybe forty.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him pull his legs up onto the sofa so that we sat back to back. He sighed. “I’m just… It hasn’t even been a year and I’m tired. I’m just fucking tired. I can’t help it. I’ve just been wearing down and now I’m just ready to crawl into bed and sleep for the rest of my life. At least Bro’s still in my dreams. And I can still ride my motorbike.”

“That’s not reality, though,” I pointed out.

“But it’s a damned nice fantasy. I have an actual purpose in my dreams. I’m not some beaten-down bastard teaching at a YMCA on a pity job. I’m still a stunt rider and… I feel like I mean something more. Bro approves of me in my dreams. He’s there to shake my hand when I land some sort of badass stunt and when I wake up, he’s gone. And I’m stuck in this damned chair that I can’t even bother to act positive about anymore. I just…” He sighed and scooted away from me.

He caught me when I lost my own balance and gave me a gentle sort of push that showed that he was done with physical interaction. “I need to be alone for a while. Don’t wait up for me. I… I need to think about things.” As he spoke, he lifted himself back into his chair. He disappeared into the bedroom before I could say anything else. After about ten minutes, he emerged in one of his old biker jackets and a pair of clean sweatpants. He pulled on some warmer gloves, offered me a curt wave, and disappeared out the front door.


	16. A Little Closer to Closure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly shorter than usual. Sorry. Thanks for reading, though, and comments and feedback are welcome.

I was alone in the apartment for two days. I didn’t think that not having him around would be as bad as it was; but, I missed him. I missed his stupid commentary. I missed how he’d start asking what was for dinner before we’d even started making lunch. And, even with as small of an apartment as ours, I felt alone.

Then, on the 22nd of December, Rose dropped by with him. Apparently, she’d found him smoking outside of the cemetery his brother was buried in. He was shivering and suffering from at least mild hypothermia. Rose stayed long enough to help me get him warmed up and into bed. She made sure he was okay before leaving.

After that, the next three days were just as lonely as the ones where he wasn’t even there. He slept practically all day and refused any food. The only reason he left the bed was to go to the bathroom or to grab a glass of water. He grew increasingly distant. He refused to touch me or let me touch him. By the time Christmas day arrived, I was on the edge of a long drop into emotional hell. Dave, however, seemed to have already taken that drop.

When I woke up on Christmas day, though, he was already awake. I was surprised, however, to see an empty plate of what I could only assume was pancakes (judging by the syrup still stuck to the surface) in the sink. I was further surprised when I found him outside—bundled up in a red pull-on sweater and jeans. Having made his way through the remains of the past few days of snow, he was smoking in full view of our bedroom window. Presumably, he did it on purpose.

At the very least, when I opened the window and called out to him, he acted like he expected it. In fact, he rather plainly informed me that he was going to be spending the entire day at the cemetery his brother was buried in. He pointed out that he’d be fine by himself, though he also said he’d like if I visited with him.

(As an aside… Really, despite his personality, Dave was pretty sentimental. He was also insistent upon his belief that death wasn’t exactly the end of the road. He admitted to not being sure of what happened afterwards, but he seemed to lean towards an intriguing idea of people’s energy sticking around to watch out for the people that mattered to them. So, it wasn’t really a surprise when he admitted that he wanted to get me as close as he could to meeting his brother.)

_**We spent our first Christmas together in a cemetery.** _  
_**We arrived around noon.** _  
_**We didn’t leave until the sun began to set.** _

The drive to the cemetery was about twenty minutes. Dave added an extra ten by stopping at a florist to pick up a live wreath of flowers and holly. (“I’d want people to show up and at least leave something for me when I die. And I want people to know that—even if it’s not my mom—someone still cares about him. Maybe he knows it somehow. I don’t know. It just feels right.”)

After getting out of the car, Dave pulled out the thick knitted lap blanket that Rose had made him. It matched his favorite full-sized blanket, which I thought was a nice touch—it was the same plush yarn and the same color. He took a brief moment to get comfortable underneath the cover before grabbing the wreath from the back and tossing me the metal stand it came with.

Now, this was one of those newer cemeteries. A lot of the graves in the section Dave was leading me toward were flat so that groundskeepers could use larger lawnmowers. Seeing as there was at least an inch of snow left on the ground that, it looked like an empty field to me. The only signs of the cemetery were occasional flowers and gifts. Even so, Dave knew exactly where he was going. He’d obviously visited a lot, because he never hesitated on his way. He even knew when to turn to avoid other graves. (I, however, accidentally stepped on a few.)

When we stopped, we found ourselves in the shade of a modest oak tree. Dave set the wreath down just behind where I could only assume the grave was. Then, before I realized what he was doing, he folded up his blanket and shoved it into the pouch he’d started to string up between the handlebars of his chair. He locked himself in place and edged himself up to the edge of his chair before carefully lowering himself to balance on the footrests—a thoroughly uncomfortable-looking position to be in, but he used the time to wipe the snow away from the grave stone.

It was a simple marker. The copper nameplate had garnered a fairly nice layer of patina. The name (Dirk Strider, apparently) stood out clearly. The simple epitaph did, too— _Beloved brother, mentor, and friend_. No dates were listed. None of the usual addendums of “survived by” were present. Really, it seemed a bit too plain for someone who Dave had always held on such a high pedestal.

And I guess he sensed my confusion, because he started to explain the story. “When Bro died, Mom just kind of… I think she sort of checked out. She never really liked him. He was a lot like me. He got in trouble and did some stupid shit that he shouldn’t have.” He shrugged and reached back to grab the armrests. He continued talking as he hoisted himself back up into the seat. “He was going to get a generic sort of engraving before I stepped in. Rose helped me pay for mine.”

I nodded. “That’s surprisingly decent of you, Dave,” I muttered.

He smirked and grabbed the blanket from the bag. “Well, if I die first, you better do the same for me,” he responded with a gentle shove. After that, though, he settled into a more somber mood. He fished around in his jacket’s inner pocket and pulled out a picture of his brother. Unlike some of the others I’d seen, he was smiling in this one. And Dave acknowledged that much, too. “Yeah, that’s where the Strider smile comes from. Really, it’s from our dad, but I hate that bastard, so I say it’s something I have in common with Bro.”

A sort of melancholy grin worked its way onto his face. He absentmindedly ran his fingers over the glossy protective film he’d sealed the picture into. “You know… If I had to guess, I think Bro would’ve really liked you. I mean, he’d really appreciate all the shit you’ve put up with.”

For some reason, that comment made me feel pretty good. In a way, it gave me a sense of validation—as if I’d passed some sort of test. “That’s good, right?” I reaffirmed.

Dave nodded. “Yeah. Bro wouldn’t have let you look at me if he didn’t like you.” He flashed a nostalgic grin at me, though it faded as fast as it appeared. His leg shook under the blanket as he continued his musings. “Not sure what he’d say about me, though.”

“I’m sure he’d just want you to move on as best as you could,” I reassured him.

He shrugged. “I know. It’s just… I wish I’d gotten to see him one last time. It’s like I never got to say goodbye.”

I sighed and knelt down, propping myself up on my heels so that Dave didn’t have to keep looking up to talk to me. While I was in that position, I noticed a few weeds working their way up the copper nameplate. I pulled them off as I spoke with Dave. I’m not sure why, but it felt like the right thing to do. “Well, you’re always saying you feel like he’s always somewhere close by. You can always say it now. I mean, it’s a little late but…”

Dave responded with a bittersweet laugh. “You know, you’re right,” he muttered. “Go do something with yourself for a while. I’ll just come ram myself into the car when I’m ready to leave.”

“Is it even unlocked?”

“You’re the one who picked it out. It’s got one of those fancy remote locks, remember?” Dave shot back with a grin. “If it makes you feel any better, there’s a combat knife in the glove compartment.”

‘What the fuck do you have a combat knife in your car for?” I grumbled.

“I’ll get you one when you finally learn to drive, kid. Now go scoot your ass off somewhere and give me some free time.” He emphasized his point by lighting a cigarette and casually blowing a massive cloud of smoke in my general direction.

That was enough to get me running back to the car. As much as I liked it in very small doses, the smell of straight cigarette smoke was disgusting. It still is disgusting. And, so, I clambered back into the car.

I figured he might take a while (which he did), so I started rummaging through Dave’s odd collection of CDs. Mixed in with the obscure rock music and occasional rap album were a few presumably prank disks of Frank Sinatra from John. (I could tell, as he never let a prank go unnoticed. He’d signed his name in the corner.) Still, it was about the only thing that interested me. I loaded all four disks into his six-disk system and tilted the passenger seat back.

And I guess I enjoyed the music, because I woke up around sundown as Dave threw his chair into the backseat. When he noticed I’d woken up, he smirked. “What the fuck are you doing listening to this trash?”

I shrugged, yawned, and pulled the lever that returned my seat to its regular position. “I don’t know. Why do you have it in your car?”

“Because it’s not terrible,” he shrugged. “Look, you’re the asshole who listens to classical for fun. At least this shit can be classified as a precursor to modern rock and jazz.”

I rolled my eyes at the commentary. “So, how’d it go? You feel any better?”

He remained silent for a minute as he tugged at the controls. Really, as much as he loved driving, he was quick to point out that driving with hand controls could be a pain in the ass. Once he’d gotten the car facing the right way, though, he was fine. “Actually,” he sighed, “I kind of do. Thanks for the suggestion.”

“Any time,” I grumbled. “You going to keep that music going?”

“You’re sleeping to it and not bothering me, so I’m cool with it if it keeps you out of my hair,” he replied with a wink.

I flipped him off and folded my arms across my chest. I sunk back down into the passenger’s seat and fell back to sleep. For some reason, I must have really needed to sleep, because I don’t remember getting out of the car. I’m not sure how he did it, but Dave managed to get me back inside and into bed. Because, at some point, I woke up in bed next to him and instinctively moved closer.

(I vaguely remember him shoving me away before he moved closer to me, muttering the whole time about me trying to push him out of bed. I’m pretty sure that happened; it’s something I’d do. Still, he’s yet to confirm or deny that particular recollection.)


	17. No Relationship's Perfect

After Christmas, things started improving. As the stresses of December faded, Dave’s mood lightened.

On the 26th, a relatively large package from Jade arrived on our doorstep. Inside, we found a note explaining that Dave’s current chair wasn’t exactly the best fit for him and that she had sent us the box as a care package. Aside from a few informational books, some of the supplies from our therapy sessions (including a walker and an assorted collection of dumbbell weights), and a few oddball wheelchair attachments (including a snow plow, some sort of convoluted umbrella holder, and five motherfucking cup holders in assorted colors), she included a new wheelchair.

It took us about three hours of bickering and throwing parts around (“some assembly required” my ass), but we eventually managed to piece together a sporty red chair. The top of the wheels were tilted slightly inwards which, according to the letter, increased maneuverability and reduced arm strain. It had optional armrests, but Dave pretty much threw them out. Apparently, he liked the more “open feeling” he got without them. (I’m pretty sure he meant he had extra room to move his arms, but I don’t ever fucking know with him.) It also came with a pretty cool system wherein one could click a button to pull off the wheels for storage.

Aside from the obvious perks—including taking sharp turns and apparently having an easier time popping wheelies, because that’s _exactly_ what the manufacturer intended the damned thing to be used for—it actually boosted Dave’s confidence levels. Aside from the fact that he’d finally gotten his garish red chair, its design was sleek and modern. Really, it matched his personality a lot better than the old one. Despite his insistence that we throw it out, though, I kept the old chair in case anything ever happened.

By the 30th of December, Dave had settled back into a far more pleasant mood.

On New Year’s Eve, we celebrated the occasion by playing Monopoly. Dave quickly learned why no one ever finishes a game, though, and quit. Shortly thereafter, though, we somehow ended up in bed together. And, just like the last time, he knew how to satisfy.

Things were going great. Everything seemed to be in our favor and, then, I opened my damned mouth…

_**On January 4 th, I fucked up.** _  
_**There’s no other way to put it.** _  
_**I completely, irrevocably fucked up.** _

It started on Friday. I had a particularly rough day at work—honestly, I missed Dave and I hated working at that bar. Somehow, that carried over into Saturday morning, when I somehow took out my frustration on Dave.

“Feeling any better?” That’s the question that spurred the disaster. Dave had asked it innocently enough. He’d genuinely wanted to know if I was in a better mood than I had been the night before.

And, normally, I just would have shrugged and explained that I wasn’t. But, on that particular day, it came out as, “Mind your own damned business.”

“Well, we live together… My business is your business and vice versa,” he’d laughed.

I didn’t. Instead, a stream of poor choices just flooded out of my mouth. “Well maybe it shouldn’t be.”

“What?”

“Maybe I’m getting tired of having to wake up unsure of what mood you’ll be in. Maybe I don’t want to deal with you waking me up to help you clean up your own piss. Maybe I just want some goddamn alone time that’s just me. Just me and none of you.”

“But…”

“What?” I snapped. And, then, I realized what I’d said. And I couldn’t ignore the look of betrayal on Dave’s face. The bright smile I’d gotten so used to seeing was gone, replaced, instead, by an uncertain frown. And, though I knew then that it was too late to do anything, I tried. “Wait… Dave…”

“No, that’s fine,” he muttered, “I sort of am, too. I guess I just…” He sighed and wrung his hands together. “I thought that…”

“No, Dave,” I insisted. “Dave, I’m sorry.”

And, then, he flashed me a melancholy smile. “I am, too.” Then, with a nonchalant wave, he made his way to the door. “I’ll send Rose to pick up my stuff. You can keep the apartment.”

At that moment, panic set in.

I don’t know how any of it started. I honestly don’t. But it was stupid of me to let it get as far as it did when I started talking. And, then, I realized that I needed him. I realized how much he meant to me—how his smiles brightened my day exponentially, how his fears and shortcomings had become mine as well—and I panicked. I stumbled from the bed and rushed after him.

By then, though, it was too late. When I got to the door, I only caught a glimpse of his car pulling out of the driveway. And it hit me that I’d made a huge mistake. I’d fucked up, and I couldn’t fix it.

All of his things were gone by the 7th. Rose refused to talk to me. Dave got a new phone number and refused to answer any of my messages. He left me one thing, though—a note and a pair of gold rings.

_“To Karkat:_

_I won’t need these anymore. You’ll have more use for them._  
_Find someone important to give it to. I know you will._  
_You’re a great guy. As much as I made fun of you, you’re a great guy._  
_Thanks for making the past few months easier to deal with._  
_You find someone that deserves that ring, darlin’._  
_And, when you do, maybe think of me._

_With Love,_  
_Dave Strider”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I know this looks bad but I promise it has a nice ending and I still have a few more places I want to go with this so just hang in there, friends. Also, shoutout to the people who subscribed to this fic.


	18. Further Discourse on the Passage of Time

After that day in January, I was left alone. It would be almost three years before I’d see him again.

Despite getting a better job at a bookstore, I came to live only to scour newspapers about Dave’s whereabouts. I kept track of what happened to him and where he went. I kept a bulletin board of news articles that mentioned him. I understand that that’s creepy, but it was the only thing I could do to keep myself from completely shutting down. It reminded me that he was living a good life even after I was such a damned bastard to him.

A few months after he left, he was praised by the local news for starting a music school of his own. He taught guitar; Rose taught violin. A few days after that news article ran, I was surprised to find a letter from him in the mail.

_Hey Karkat,_

_Things have been going pretty damn well for me._  
_I hope they’re going just as well for you. I really do._  
_Anyhow, I started up my own music school with Rose._  
_I’m teaching guitar and she’s teaching violin._  
_Most of her students are pretentious little shits, though._  
_No surprise there, right? I have more students than her, though._  
_So she can suck it. Not really though, because that’s gross._  
_If you’re in the neighborhood, feel free to drop by._

_Dave Strider_

 I never did visit him. I was honestly too scared to face him. Aside from that, he sounded so damn happy with his life. I convinced myself that going back would be taking it all away from him. I kept my fair distance. When it was reported in the news a while later that he’d taken to the habit of visiting the local skatepark, I took it as a sign that my absence was doing him some sort of good.

His second letter arrived in the mail in late April.

_Hey again,_

_Been a while since I’ve seen you. Or heard from you._  
_I mean… I’d still like to keep in touch and stuff._  
_Maybe just call me or shoot me an email or something?_  
_I don’t know. But I’ll be at the skatepark pretty much every weekend._  
_I mean, most of it is just wiping the fuck out but it’s fun._  
_Maybe I’ll catch you there some day._

_Dave Strider_

Again, I kept the letter but ignored his requests for correspondence. By then, he was making it onto the news for pulling stunts at the skatepark. The local news couldn’t stop gushing about it, though I found it funny that his write-in commentary about how he was just another adrenaline junkie kept getting published alongside the glowing articles he kept trying to shut down. Still, he seemed happy.

By early June, he was pretty much the coolest guy in town. So, when shit hit the fan, it was practically front-page news. At some point in the early morning of June 10th, it was reported that he’d been found unconscious in his room. He was rushed to the hospital, where doctors deemed the event an accidental overdose of pain medication.

The local news media circled him like a hawk throughout his two month recovery. He took it all with his usual cocky finesse, though. In August, another letter arrived. Various sections were scribbled out and rewritten. Really, it just seemed as if he had too much on his mind at the time.

_Karkat,_

_I hope you can read my shitty handwriting._  
_The incident in… when was it? I think it was June?_  
_Yeah. I’m going with June. Anyhow, it did a number on me._  
_I’ve had problems with a lot shit since then._  
_It’s gotten a little harder to keep my balance._  
_Thoughts tend to keep passing through as they please._  
_Hopefully, though, you’re doing better than I am._

_Dave Strider_

After that letter, things seemed to start evening themselves out. My reality recalibrated itself to adjust to life without him. I continued to convince myself that he didn’t want to see me. Still, I kept up with his accomplishments. In early January of the first year since he’d left, I got another letter.

_Hey dude,_

_I don’t know why I keep writing to you. You never answer._  
_But it feels nice knowing you’re at least getting these. I think._  
_Maybe you’re just shredding them. I don’t know. Your choice._  
_I’m still doing the shit that Jade told me to do. All the fancy therapy stuff._  
_Rose helped me take a few clumsy steps a few days ago._  
_I kind of wish you were there to see it. I probably looked ridiculous._  
_Come visit soon, maybe?_

_Dave Strider_

Later that month, I decided to move. As much as I wanted to see him, I’d convinced myself that he was fine without me. I packed my things and moved back in with Kankri. That seemed to stop the letters for a while. A whole year, in fact. And while I felt lonely, I constantly assured myself that I was doing the right thing.

Then, late July of the second year we spent apart, I got another letter.

_If you’re actually reading these…_

_Hey, Karkat. I kept getting my letters returned and figured you moved._  
_I hope the new owner of the apartment takes good care of it. It was a nice place._  
_Anyhow, I hate to say it, but I miss you. I don’t care if we’re not dating,_  
_I just want to see you._

_I’ll be getting my adrenaline fix for the week at the skatepark._  
_I can promise you I’ll be there on August 6 th._  
_If you can’t make it, I understand. But if you can, please come._  
_Hopefully we can still be friends._

_Dave Strider_

After that, something in the back of my mind clicked. Though he’d pointed it out a few times before, there was no way to deny that he really did want to see me again. I was as excited to see him as I was terrified of what he’d be thinking. Did he really want to talk or did he just want to beat the shit out of me for saying the crap I did to him? How could I tell him that I wanted to try and patch our relationship back to where it was before all the bullshit flew into the fan?

What could I do to make him believe that I still loved him?

_**Saturday, August 6 th.** _  
_**I arrived at the skatepark around noon.** _  
_**I wore the suit that Dave had given me.** _  
_**I carried his notes and the rings in my pocket.** _

By then, I’d gotten my driver’s license. I’d purchased a beaten-down Honda Civic and I probably looked like an asshole getting out of that thing at a skatepark in a damned suit. But I didn’t care. I’d set my goal for the day and I fully intended on accomplishing them. If I didn’t… Well, I never thought about that. I tried to avoid thinking about it; because, if I did, I’d be alone again. And that idea terrified me.

But I managed to hold myself together. I scraped together every bit of courage I had and walked into that concrete monstrosity of a recreational venue like I damn well owned it. And it didn’t take long for me to find him either. I mean, he didn’t exactly blend in well.

Aside from the obvious bright red wheelchair, he dressed pretty eccentrically, too. He wore a motorcycle helmet and his old leather biking jacket—by then, it was covered in patches where the color had rubbed off and turned to a sort of milky grey. Instead of jeans, though, he wore black sweatpants. He’d used a specially designed leather belt to secure his legs to a beam in the middle of the leg support. Seeing as it was a completely different color from the rest of the chair, I could only assume he’d welded it on himself.

I arrived just in time to see an intriguing series of events unfold. He appeared briefly in my view, emerging from what’s apparently called a bowl, and caught himself on the edge with his right hand. He balanced himself at a rough ninety degree angle for a few seconds and dropped. Apparently, though, he got the angle wrong when landing. Because it was followed by the sound of metal scraping against concrete and the utterance of a single “fuck.”

When I arrived at the edge of the bowl, I found him in the end stages of getting himself upright. If I had to guess, he’d just tipped his chair back into the correct position. Even so, he noticed me immediately.

He propelled himself up the sloped wall of the bowl and threw his weight so that he landed safely next to me. He swayed and I noticed that he seemed to have to steady himself against the wheels a few times. At the same time, though, he managed to pull off his helmet. Once he’d regained his balance, he folded his arms over the top of the helmet, which rested on his lap, and smirked.

Aside from his usual southern drawl, his voice was barely recognizable. It was quiet, hoarse, and incredibly strained. His words were punctuated by frequent shifts in volume. It wavered constantly between being completely normal and barely whispering. There were infrequent but brief pauses in his voice. Still, that didn’t deter him from talking as much as usual. “What’s with the suit? You going to a funeral?”

Really, that change was the only thing I noticed. In a way, I guess it was only natural for my response to be what it was. “What the hell happened to your voice?”

He shrugged. “Remember that whole overdosing incident? Something about it didn’t settle with me. Basically, my vocal chords have gone haywire. It’s… It’s really a long story. Rose can explain it better. All I know is that… That my vocal cords randomly tighten so… I can’t talk normally. That’s… I think that’s about it.” He punctuated his commentary with an apologetic half-smile.

“Doesn’t it hurt? At all? Because I’d think your windpipe constantly seizing up would be at least moderately uncomfortable.” I kept my eyes locked on him as I spoke. I tried to gauge his reaction but, as per usual, I really couldn’t. There was no seeing past that smug, enigmatic grin.

And there was certainly no way for me to tell by his voice anymore, seeing as his tone was constantly changing. “Not really. No.” He shrugged again. “It’s mildly uncomfortable... Kind of annoying. But that’s about it. It’s a lot better than before, though.”

I nodded, buried my hands in my pockets, and followed him into the shade of a repurposed bus stop canopy. There “So… You been doing okay?”

He sighed and folded his arms across his chest. “It’s been going pretty well. Made myself a nice amount of money with the whole teaching gig. Not exactly… I wouldn’t have planned using the best years of my life like this. But… I think it’s going okay. I think I’m doing pretty well.”

“Yeah?” I asked. Glancing over at him, I still couldn’t see through his smile. I noted, however, that he never looked at me.

He shrugged. “Yeah. I’m getting my own place, too. I’ve gotten sick of…” He paused and leaned against the backrest. “Rose means well, but she’s… She’s overbearing. So goddamn overbearing. And I have enough money to keep my own place. So, that’s what I’m doing.”

“I’m still living with Kankri,” I quietly admitted.

For the first time, he looked at me. He leaned his elbow on the wheel closest to me and leaned towards me. His grin turned to a sly smirk. “Yeah? Well, the place has two rooms. One floor, of course. I’m not pulling my ass up steps if I can avoid it. But it’s… I’d say it’s a nice place.”

“Are you suggesting I live with you?” I asked, glancing down to meet his gaze.

“Maybe,” he replied, returning to a more comfortable-looking position. “Look, I miss you. And you wouldn’t have to put up with Kankri, so… It seemed like a fair deal when I thought of it.”

“So, would we be dating or whatever?”

“No. I mean…” He frowned and ran his fingers through his hair. “Yes. Maybe. If you wanted to. I really don’t know.” He flipped the clasps that locked the wheels in place and turned to face me. The pauses between words grew more frequent. “It’s all really complicated and… I’m… I’m not really…” He let forth another loud sigh and drummed his fingers against the wheel rims. “I’m probably not in… You don’t really want to… Shit. You have some paper? I’ve got a pen.”

I nodded and reached into my jacket pocket. Without thinking, I pulled out one of the letters and handed it over.

He’d already started writing on it before he noticed. Once he’d noticed it, though, a sentimental grin worked its way onto his face. “You still have these?” he muttered.

“Yeah,” I admitted. “I always got them. I just always assumed you were better off without me. You sounded so damned pleased with your life in the letters and I didn’t want to mess it up…”

He smirked. “Nice lie you told yourself,” he commented, handing me the paper.

_If you want to date again, we can._  
_I’d love to. I really would._  
_But I’m obligated to tell you_  
_that I’ve gotten myself into some_  
_sort of massive, disgusting pickle_  
_when it comes to health. So…_  
_Yes. We could. Only if you want to._

Once I was done reading, I started to formulate a reply. Before I could, though, Dave interjected. “I’m sorry. If I get nervous it kind of messes the whole vocal thing up. Usually I’m fairly okay. But…” He shrugged and pulled his goggles up so that they rested on the top of his head. By then, he was looking straight into my eyes—something that, even when we were dating, wasn’t all that common. “I do still kind of… I… I hate to admit it. But I still love you, you asshole.”

“Yeah, well,” I instinctively pulled my gaze away from his. “I came here to say about the same thing. Fucking figures, doesn’t it?”

He responded with a smile—a genuine smile. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love it. I’d been craving a glimpse of that perpetually smug, annoying grin of his for three years. And, finally, I’d gotten it. His reply was like a bonus package at that point. “Well, then, I guess we’ve got some catching up to do. Right?”

“We sure as fucking hell do, you supercilious little shit,” I grumbled.

“Well, then, why not start now?” He snickered. Before I knew what was happening, he rammed into my shin, waited until I instinctively reached to grab my undoubtedly bruised appendage, and grabbed onto my tie when I did. He pulled me into a kiss. And it felt like the best thing in the world.

There we were—two out-of-place idiots in a skatepark making out. And I couldn’t have given less of a fuck if you paid me to. Because it was fucking fantastic. That one impulsive reaction from Dave—his usual spontaneity—was something that I’d been craving. And he ran his hands through my hair and over my neck and shoulders. At some point, I ended up straddling the chair—a fairly uncomfortable position to be in, but it was damned well worth it.

He ended it with as much abrupt grace as he’d begun it. He gave me a gentle shove to let me know that it was done. And, when I pulled back, I couldn’t help but smile. “You know we just had a lascivious tongue-battle in the middle of a family skatepark, right?” I muttered.

“Yeah,” he breathed. By then, he was grinning like he’d won some sort of strange lottery. “Yeah, I do. It’s pretty hard to not notice.”

“And for you… If I remember right…” I playfully began.

He cut me off quickly, but his tone was equally lighthearted. “That was some fucking fine tongue sex, yes. It’s nice of you to remember my sexual appetite. Mildly perverted, but kind of sweet, too.”

“So…” I knew the comment risked ruining the mood, but I had to confirm it for myself. I wanted to make sure he was okay with how things had progressed. “We’re back together?”

His response, accompanied by a wild smirk, was enough of an answer for me. “We can talk about this more in the car.”

“Talk about it?” I goaded.

“Tongue-wrestling is just a fancier way of working out shit, isn’t it?” Dave shrugged.

Naturally, I agreed. We returned to the car, where Dave decided that it was better to make out in the back seat. At some point, though, we both decided it was time to stop acting like teenagers and maybe leave.

Surprisingly, he let me come back home with him.

Really, the ease with which we ended up back together was unbelievable. Fantastical? Yeah. But, sometimes weird shit like that happens. And sometimes you end up getting a blowjob after being back together for less than a day. (I didn't really ask for it, but he started and I didn't really feel like stopping him. It felt good. I wouldn't have requested it myself. It's kind of like asking for expensive food. You don't order unless they offer.) At the very least, that’s how it went for me. (Dave would probably say that I should add that “this is not a common outcome and patients should not expect these results.”)

And, really, it was pretty great. Everything just settled back in place as quickly as it had been blown apart. Still, I didn’t question it. I never have. I’m just happy I ended up getting the bombastic fucker back as easily as I did. In a way, I think he was pretty pleased with the situation, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See. It got better. It's probably going to be happy fluff from here with maybe one or two not happy ones thrown in but it'll probably be mostly happy fluff. And, yes, this is the second sex scene I glossed over. Hurrah for the asexuality tag.


	19. A Complete Pair of Jackasses

Within a week of being back, Dave and I began packing to move into the new house. He’d already purchased it when he offered the open room to me, so the whole thing was really just packing and waiting for crews to finish renovating the house.

While it was advertised as accessible, Dave quickly found out that that particular relator’s idea of accessibility was more in line with adding a crude ramp. The kitchen might as well have come with a giant “fuck you, Dave Strider” sign, seeing as the countertops weren’t anywhere within reasonable reach. So, some of his time went to answering calls from contractors wondering what the hell he wanted to do with things.

Aside from that, we had to shop for furniture. Naturally, Dave dragged me out to practically every store he could think of. In the end, we somehow managed to get a discordant but somewhat logical balance between our disparaging styles. I preferred more formal furniture; Dave liked the more modern, casual designs.

Most of the house was ruled by a clash of my style and Dave’s. And, really, that’s how we liked it. Dave thought it was pretty funny that we had a formal dining table in the middle of a space stocked with otherwise modern furniture. He found it equally hilarious that half of the China cabinet was actually filled with tableware, while the other half had a shitty assortment of novelty bobbleheads. (Among these were a few odd anime characters, Barack Obama, Abraham Lincoln in a steampunk warrior getup, Edgar Allan Poe, and a bunch of other odd celebrities. He also put a roll of novelty toilet paper printed to look like money into the cabinet to piss me off.)

We also caught up on each other’s life events. Or, rather, I caught up with his. He had John spying on me and giving him updates. (Creepy, sneaky little pervert. But a nigh irresistible one, too.) Apparently, he made a sizeable chunk of change teaching younger children how to play guitar. The new house even had a room dedicated solely for that purpose. From what he could tell, parents loved his tough love approach to teaching. Also, he added, some parents tipped him pretty well if their kid learned a little faster. He’d used to tips to repair the guitar and even had enough stashed away to pay for the bike rennovations.

Outside of his job, he admitted to taking up that bullshit in the skatepark—apparently, an actual sport called “extreme chairing”—after realizing that the motorcycle deal was only good when I was around. He’d taught himself his own stunts and surprisingly managed to do it without breaking anything. (At least, up until that point he hadn’t.) However, he pointed out that he managed to break his nose at some point—but, and he emphasized this heavily, it was from a bar fight. (According to Rose, he was a bit too enthusiastic about leaving after a visit to the doctor’s office and ran into a glass door. Really, her story is a bit more believable. Still, I wouldn’t put it past him to start a random bar fight. Dave still insists that it was a bar fight.)

He also told me about the overdose. Both he and Rose assured me it was completely accidental. Apparently, he hadn’t been sleeping well in the days before the incident and grabbed a few more than he really needed. Despite the fact that he completely stopped breathing at some point afterwards, he managed to bypass all logical expectations by recovering with only a mild speech problem. He was also slightly more apt to forget things, but he did that before the incident, anyhow. In keeping with convention, Dave deemed the overdose, “The Shit, Part Three.”

By the 20th of August, we’d moved into the new house.

I also learned not to trust Dave when it came to labelling architectural styles, because it was _not_ a ranch style house. Rather, it was a spacious modified bungalow. (When I informed him of his, he punched me in the gut, called me an “architectural know-it-all,” and laughed.)

As far as modifications went, Dave surprised me with his ability to reason with various contractors. The second-story space created by the modest dormer window had been converted into a sort of oddball oversized display case. Somehow, he’d convinced the contractors to lift the faded yellow outer shell of an old Volkswagen Beetle into the space. (I have no fucking idea where he got it or why he had it. When I asked him, he shrugged and said “aesthetic.”) Apparently, it was supposed to gather dust and “seem mysterious.” The living room, dining room, and kitchen were combined. The walls were knocked down to provide more floor space. The kitchen was essentially split in half. One half was for me, the other for Dave. Not that it mattered. I usually just used Dave’s counter, anyhow.

On the outside, it was pretty average. Dave got them to fix the porch so that it had a sturdier ramp that didn’t look like it was nailed on as soon as he expressed interest. Similar modifications were made to our small back porch. Seeing as Dave didn’t really like random drunkards knocking over our mostly decorative patio furniture, he installed a surprisingly tasteful brick wall around our back yard.

Dave finally got his garage, too. He flattened out a defined path to it through our yard and stocked it with his bike, his car, and some other random junk. Though he kept a good amount of tools in there, most of his time was spent polishing his bike. (The tools, he pointed out, were just a masculine accessory. Because everyone has a functioning blowtorch just to look outrageously and stereotypically masculine.)

Location-wise, the house was suitable for both business and residence. We were on the edge of the city—not close enough to hear the usual noise, but not as far out as Rose’s house. Essentially, we straddled the line between the city and the suburbs.

_**I quit my old job and opted to work with Dave.** _   
_**Specifically, I helped him organize his schedule.** _   
_**By the 26 th, everything seemed to have fallen back into place.** _   
_**Everything, that is, except for one minor detail…** _

The evening of the 26th of August was planned about as well as anything planned by Dave Strider could be. Really, the plan boiled down to forcing me into a blindfold and dragging my ass to that fancy French place again.

Unlike last time, though, we ate in the main dining area. Terezi had since moved away from being a chef and had fulfilled her dream of being a prosecutor. And, even with all his local connections and modest wealth, we couldn’t afford to book the whole place for ourselves. We sat in front of the window facing out to the street, as if Dave wanted to show me off to practically everyone who even glanced in our direction. I wore the suit he’d given me—still, at that point, the only one I owned—and he wore his brother’s old suit.

Really, if I had to admit it, it was pretty fucking romantic. He knew what he was doing. We’d never been to that expensive-as-hell restaurant since our first date, so he knew that bringing me back would turn me into a sentimental sack of hopeless romantic trash.

To add to that, our table was one of the fancy two-people ones with turn-of-the-century French dining chairs. Unlike before, he had no qualms about lifting himself into the restaurant’s chair. Really, considering the smug grin he shot at me afterwards, I think he just wanted to show off.

Once he was settled, he rummaged through his pocket, sighed, and switched out his shades for his usual indoor glasses. He read the menu by zooming in on it with his phone. Still, he held himself with his usual air of confidence. He practically farted ego. I noticed, though, that he didn’t speak for a while. The only words he said were to the waiter.

By the time he finally _did_ start to talk, his snails had arrived. He’d managed to slurp down three of the slimy bastards before talking to me. “You sure you don’t want one?” were his first words of the entire date.

“I already told you, they’re gross and I’m allergic to them,” were mine.

He replied with a shrug. As soon as he spoke, though, I could tell he was getting nervous. His vocal indicator was pretty obvious, anyhow; he couldn’t play it cool as easily as he used to. “Yeah. You’re right. You’re missing out, though. And…”

Here, he stopped. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a familiar ring box—one half of a pair that I’d held onto until he took them back. (A few days after getting back together, he took them and hid them somewhere.) He flipped it around in his hands a few times, anxiously glancing at me.

After a few more minutes of silence, he spoke up. “Is all of this even really necessary?” he joked. “We both know what’s about to happen. Can’t we just go ahead without the fanfare and shit?”

I shrugged. “We could. But you’re the one who had the idea in the first place.”

“I’m thinking about taking it back. Maybe we’ll do this at home or something?” he muttered.

“Whatever you want to do, Dave.” Again, I shrugged.

And I guess something in Dave’s mind clicked into place, because he seemed to have a complete change of heart. After shoving the box back into his pocket, he pulled his wheelchair up so that it was next to him and slipped into it without any issues. After getting himself situated, the box came back out of his pocket. He set popped it open, set it on the side of the table, and approached me before taking it back.

As he later admitted, he didn’t have a plan. But he’d calmed himself down enough to shake the nervous pauses in his voice. “Fine then, you romantic schlock. Fine!” With that much said, he parked himself in front of me and smirked. “We both knew this was coming, really. It was kind of obvious. But… I mean… Before I get into the actual questioning, I have to tell you a few things.”

“Okay then, Kanye, go ahead,” I joked.

He let a short laugh slip past his defenses before he continued in a surprisingly serious tone. “Unless we both die in some sort of fiery, blazing car wreck, I’m more than likely…” He sighed and pulled his gaze away from me. For a minute or so, his voice started to break and waver. “I… How do I put this? Is… No. There’s no nice way to put it.” Here, he seemed to regain his usual confidence. His voice went back to mostly normal, though its volume still fluctuated. “You’re going to live at least two decades longer than I am. It’s just a fact. I pretty much trashed myself in high school and there’s no taking it back.”

I nodded. We’d already discussed it all before, so it wasn’t a huge problem. He’d already smoked enough to permanently damage his lungs. He’d had enough drinking binges to put his liver in jeopardy. We both knew that much. And it sucked to know that doctors were probably right, but there was always that chance that they weren’t. “Yeah,” I eventually admitted. “I know.”

“And you realize that I’m not actually going to fully recover, right? You know as well as I do that there’ll be some shit days,” he muttered, his gaze still locked on the ground.

“I understand.”

He nodded. Hs gaze swept upwards and landed on me again. From the way he stared at me, I got a sense that he was speaking his mind directly at that moment—something he rarely ever does. “So… Would you still be willing to…” He paused, looked at the ring, and set it in my lap without much fanfare before continuing. “Let me be honest. You’re a massive asshole. I’m one, too. We… At least… I think we’re made for each other. I want to spend my last conscious minutes on this fucked-over planet with you. I…”

By then, my inner hopeless romantic was practically screeching. My heart was pounding. By default, my eyes were watering. I smiled at him and nodded. “Yeah? Well, I’ve been thinking the same things for the past few years,” I muttered. “Yeah… I accept. I do. Whatever the fuck you want to—”

At that moment, Dave flashed the brightest smile I’ve ever seen. Without thinking, he grabbed me by the lapels of my coat and pulled me into an impossibly tight hug. He rested his chin against my shoulder. His breath brushed against the side of my face as he whispered, “Thank you. Thank you, you goddamn dork. Thank you.”

“For what?” I muttered back.

“For everything,” he breathed.

I nodded. While I was absolutely thrilled about the events that had just occurred, I also noticed a platter with our orders coming. I gave him a gentle shove. “Hey. Hey, fuckboy, the food’s here.”

He responded by pulling away from me and grinning. “Well, then, we can save all this for later, can’t we?” he laughed.

“This is a family restaurant,” I snickered.

He merely smirked.

From there, the rest of dinner was surreal. He was surreal. It felt like I was floating. Everything just seemed so spectacular. _He_ was spectacular. That we were finally together was spectacular. It was all too good to be true and, yet, for once, it was. For once, things really did work out. For once, everything was the way it should’ve been. And it was a damned good feeling to know that it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [trumpet noises]


	20. Burgers and Planning (But Mostly Burgers)

After the date on August 26th, we had only a few loose ends to wrap up.

On the 27th, I took Dave’s bike to Equius to get it fixed up. I paid in cold, hard cash because Dave was too lazy to write a check. (We also paid a bit more, as Dave insisted that he wasn’t broke at that point.) Apparently, picking up literally $50,000 worth of paper money was easier for him. He pointed out, though, that he was nice enough to not demand that it all be paid in singles. So, yeah, that’s a bonus (I guess).

We wouldn’t get it back until a while later. There were, after all, a whole lot of things to do to it. The transmission had to be relocated to the handlebars and several handlebar components had to get rearranged to make room. A set of specialized straps to hold Dave’s legs in place were to be installed along with new footrests. A larger backrest was to be added on and, to top it off, Dave paid extra to get the bike’s parts polished to an impeccable shine.

On the final day of that August, Dave took me back to the graveyard. We left another living wreath and I wandered off to let Dave have his private time. That visit didn’t last nearly as long, though. He’d finally moved past most of the shit that held him back in that regard.

Since I was at home with Dave most of the time, he started enlisting me to help out with classes. I became “Mister Karkat,” and was charged with safety, scheduling, and general maintenance. Unlike Dave, though, I wasn’t as much as a hit with the parents. The kids, however—especially middle-school age—seemed to get a pretty nice kick out of my tendency to say things I really shouldn’t.

 _**When we finished all the lessons on September 6 th,** _  
_**Dave took me to a nearby family-owned burger place.** _  
_**We stuffed our faces and discussed our future plans.** _

It was a pretty nice day—not too hot, not too cold—but still a bit too windy for me. Dave seemed fine with it, though; he seemed fine about damned near anything, really. By then, despite not being legally married, he’d insisted we both started wearing our rings. (Really, I think both of us were just excited love-struck assholes.)

If I stopped to think about it, it was actually kind of amazing that I’d gotten to where I was; it was equally amazing for Dave to have gotten there with me. Or, maybe, I just tagged along behind him. Either way, it was kind of strange knowing that we were married after less than a year of cumulative dating. Still, my inner hopeless romantic wasn’t having any problems with it and Dave’s ego wasn’t having any problems taking me on as a partner.

But, that’s beside the point. The point is that we were stuffing our faces with the greasiest, unhealthiest form of cow meat that we possibly could and discussing our future together. That was, of course, assuming neither of us just dropped dead of a heart attack right there. (We didn’t, so that was great.) At the time, the bright blue sky of just minutes ago was being pushed away by some ominous grey clouds. Though we were sitting beneath a canopy surrounding the building, I couldn’t help but wonder if we should go eat in the car or something.

Dave, however, didn’t bring it up. I’m pretty sure he was too busy trying to figure out how many layers were on the gargantuan heart attack he’d ordered. At the very least, he was staring intently at the remaining half of it as he spoke. “So…” he began, “What’re your plans, dude?”

“For what?” I sighed. I’d only gotten through a quarter of my burger by then. Still, I was mildly considering the possibility of just giving it to him. Honestly, I preferred burgers with slightly less of a risk of clogging my arteries like bad toilet paper.

Somehow, he seemed to sense my intentions. He lifted his shades up briefly so I could see his gaze wander towards my dinner. “For life, the universe, and everything. No, I’m shitting around. Your plans for getting hitched?” he grumbled.

“I don’t know,” I shrugged, glanced down at my sandwich, a let out a mildly annoyed huff. “I’m going to fucking starve to death with you around, you bastard. Here. Take it.”

Dave’s hand had reached across the table and closed in on my meal before I was even finished. A wide, contented grin was plastered on his face. “I heard one time from some random priest that a good marriage is built from compromise. Or maybe it was compost…” he grumbled, taking a large bite of my burger. At the very least, he was kind enough to chew and swallow before continuing. “But, really, what do you want to do about the whole marriage thing?”

Again, I shrugged. “I’m fine with a small private ceremony.”

“Actually, I am, too,” Dave pointed out. “I mean, I’m not against anyone coming. Just… I’d rather just get the paper signed and save the money. But, you’d want something more, wouldn’t you? You sappy romantic dork.”

I smirked. “I can’t make things too easy for you, Dave. Then it takes all the fun out of watching you try and figure out what to do,” I goaded.

He rolled his eyes and took a large bite from his burger. After chewing and swallowing, he made a proposal. “How about this idea? Immediate family that we’re still on a talking basis with and maybe a few other people. I’m thinking Jade…”

“Are you saying you want to dump me for Jade?” I joked.

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. But she _is_ really pretty,” he commented, smirking wildly the entire time. “We’ll do it at our place and have a bitching reception afterwards.”

I couldn’t help but smile at his suggestion. “I’m not sure it’s exactly proper to refer to wedding ceremonies as being ‘bitching’ in any context.”

“It’s not proper to be a loud asshole, either, but we’re both here anyhow,” Dave shot right back. With that said, he grinned, downed some more burger, and leaned back. “Look, I don’t think either of us are eyeballing an expensive traditional ceremony. And, really, we’re lucky we’re even legally allowed to do this, anyhow. At least… right now we are. Maybe it’ll change, but I’m sure as hell not waiting for a nationwide attitude adjustment,” he shrugged.

“True,” I admitted. “So, then, what day are you thinking about?”

“December third,” he replied with a smug grin.

“You’re shitting me,” I grumbled. “Actually, no, second thought… You’re not. Forgot who you were for a minute. So, is that the final answer?” I punctuated my statement with a raised brow.

For some reason, he thought that was funny enough to let out a small snicker of laughter. “No. Actually, I was thinking more like December 26th…” Here, he shrugged. He took a few massive bites from both burgers before continuing. “I mean, it’s not exactly the best day of my life. So, hey, maybe we could kind of even it out?”

I nodded slowly and took a minute or two to mull over the idea. For once, Dave had a pretty decent plan up his sleeve. At the very least, it was rational. If he did something memorable on that day, then it would logically outweigh the former implications. Of course, things like emotions don’t exactly work like classroom weight kits. Still, it sounded reasonable. And it gave us time to get ready for what would probably be the fastest wedding ceremony in local history. “That’s actually a fairly decent idea. I’m surprised,” I eventually muttered.

He replied with a grin. “I have those sometimes. Another of my better ideas is to get you a better suit than that.”

“You’re the one who got me this suit in the first place, dipshit,” I exclaimed.

“Yeah,” he sighed, “But that was a few years ago. You’re, what, thirty seven now?” At this point, he took the last bite of his burger. Only about half of mine was left.

“I’m younger than you, you asshole,” I replied gruffly, though I could feel a grin threatening to appear. “I’m twenty two. So, about the same age you were when we met.”

“Exactly,” Dave emphasized this point by jabbing his finger at me, though it really just ended up flinging bits of the burger everywhere. “You need a suit that says, ‘I’m Karkat Vantas and I’m legally allowed to chug a beer so long as I’m not a massive public nuisance.’”

I smirked and folded my arms across my chest. “You mean a more formal, mature outfit?”

“No,” Dave insisted as he began to work on finishing my burger. Or, more appropriately, what was formerly my dinner. “I mean you need yourself a proper drinking jacket. And that thing ain’t cutting it, dude.”

“So, then, what’re you thinking?”

He shrugged, downed the rest of the burger in a grotesque span of one and a half minutes, and shrugged again. “Well, if we’re doing this, we’re both getting new suits. I was thinking red for me. So, black for you?”

“That’s what we already have, Dave” I sighed.

“No, that’s what you have.” He crumpled up the paper wrappers both of our burgers had been served in and flicked them across the table to me. “You ate the least, you clean up.”

“Shouldn’t it be the other way around, jackass?”

“No. You should clean up. Hurry up, now, it’s going to rain soon,” Dave smirked.

Glancing up at the sky, it unfortunately seemed that he was right. The clouds were getting increasingly darker and the mild warmth of the day was fading away. “Fine,” I grumbled as I snatched up the trash, “I’ll do it.”

He grinned and flipped his wheelchair’s brakes into their inactive (also called open, according to the manual) position. After being an uncivilized fuck and pocketing our unused ketchup packets, he made his way to the car.

I joined him a few minutes later.


	21. The Hot, Rugged Jackass Look

The few invitations we both agreed on sending were mailed out on the first day of October. On the fifth, we picked up Dave’s new bike. Not surprisingly, he was quick to get back into the habit of riding it. Before he did, though, he spent practically an entire day gushing about the modifications. In fact, he might as well have been getting off to the damned thing, because he was not going to shut up unless I physically stopped him.

Still, I hate to admit it, but Equius did a damned fine job of making a bike that Dave would approve of aesthetically and that I’d agree to functionally. He’d made the balancing mechanism as discrete as possible—a mostly hidden pair of repurposed plane landing gears were attached in a way that balanced the rig at practically any angle. A rack for Dave’s chair—something that he’d initially objected to on the basis of it looking stupid—had been mounted tastefully where the passenger would usually sit. The straps that kept Dave’s legs in place were seamlessly integrated into a pair of molded footrests and, as a whole, the bike looked pretty cool.

Of course, I’d never admit that.

Dave would, though. He was absolutely thrilled with his newfound ability to risk his ass on a speeding glorified bicycle. His only complaint was that he couldn’t take me on his breakneck stupid adventures. I, however, was fine with my inability to participate in Dave’s speeding embodiment of reckless self-endangerment.

Aside from all that, we still had things to attend to. Dave had to shift kids around in his lesson plans so that he had time to get married. And when I say he had to do that, I mean he threw the planner at me and told me he’d give me a box of chocolates if I did it for him. By the time I was done, he’d eaten them all. He did, however, seem at least mildly apologetic about it.

As word of our marriage got out, he also had to field countless dimwitted questions. Things like… No, cameras and newscasters were not allowed at the service. Yes, he would beat the shit out of anyone who tried. No, he would not be walking down the aisle. (Technically, there would be no aisle. Aside from that, walking wasn’t exactly the most comfortable or efficient thing for Dave to do.) His personal favorite set of questions, though, were answered as such: Yes, there would be food at the wedding; and, fuck no, the reporters cannot fucking have it.

_**On October 8 th, he woke me up around noon.** _  
_**He informed me that we were going to pick out suits.** _  
_**And, yes, that is “informed.”** _  
_**As in he told me we would.** _  
_**And then dragged my ass with him to the store.** _

And so it was that I found myself in a stuffy upscale tailor’s showroom. The fact that I had to wear my old suit didn’t help; the building was already a little warm, and with the jacket it was almost unbearable. Visually, the room was overwhelming. Suits of varying styles and colors lined the walls. Shirts and ties were pinned neatly to fabric mannequins that sat atop tables. Ties ranging from traditional to outrageous were displayed in locked glass boxes. Everything seemed to scream, “Holy shit this is expensive.”

At the very least, Dave was nice enough to let me get my measurements first. The entire time, however, I was being asked questions that confused the living hell out of me. What style lapel was I looking for (I don’t know)? What was my _intended look_ (whatever the fuck that even is)? Who was I dressing for (my future husband, duh)? How did I prefer my pants to fall on me (I’d rather they not fucking fall)? By the end of it all, I’m pretty sure the tailor was ready to punch me in the face and strangle me with his measuring tape. That didn’t matter with me, though. I was just happy to be able to get out of that suit. The jacket, vest, and tie were all on the floor by the time Dave had gotten himself ready for measuring.

Naturally, Dave had a smartass comment. “You’re making us look bad, you uncultured swine,” he pointed out.

“It’s hot in here,” I shot back.

He grinned. I realized that I’d given him the opportunity before he even spoke. “I’m sorry, I’ll leave as soon as I’m done getting measurements.”

“Whatever, jackass,” I said. I tried my best to sound serious, but that stupidly smug grin on his face made it a daunting task. So, to keep myself from breaking character, I wandered off to look at suits. Whereas Dave seemed fond of more modern suits, I preferred the more traditional outfits. One that really caught my eye was a black tuxedo with pleated pants. The jacket rested nicely atop a silver vest that set the black tie off beautifully.

Still, I kept looking. I had to keep up the appearance of an annoyed husband, after all. The browsing ruse also made it a little easier to eavesdrop. I didn’t really listen to what the tailor said. (Really, he was a bit of a stick in the mud personality-wise.) But I managed to catch bits of what Dave said.

“…side vents are best. I don’t really want to sit on my suit.’

“Loose pants with seams on the side are the best fit…”

“…red vest, preferably. Shiny fabric if you can. Silk or something. Or fake silk. I’m fine with either.”

(Admittedly, I laughed at the last comment. Dave caught me, but I did my best to ignore the smirk on his face.)

After a while, he popped up next to me. My jacket was laid across his lap. He’d untied his tie and let it lay open against his chest. His shirt had gotten wrinkled and, for some reason, there was something beautiful about the way he’d managed to mess up an outfit he’d only put on an hour ago. The fact that his blond hair was a bit messier than usual only complimented the whole look. And, judging by the smug grin, he knew about the thoughts running through my head.

His commentary only confirmed that he knew. “You know, it’s probably not a great idea to start making out here. This guy’s got a real pole up his butt. I think he’s angry he has to serve the confused gay couple,” he laughed.

“I’d be angry if I had to mess with you, too, you dope,” I grumbled, trying to keep my eyes off him. “So… What’re we doing?”

“We’re waiting for him to bring out an idea of what we’ll be getting.”

“Can’t we get that mailed to us?” I mumbled.

A smirk tugged at the edges of his lips. “You just can’t keep your hands in your pockets, can you? Hold on.” With that said, he disappeared behind the counter. He emerged a few minutes later with a piece of paper sticking out of his chest pocket.

He made some sort of smug comment about how I couldn’t keep my hands to myself and we retreated to the car. And pretty much the entire way home, he made comments about my insatiable romantic appetite.

And maybe he was right, because it wasn’t long after we got home that we ended up half-cuddling, half-wrestling on the bed.


	22. On the Topic of Being One Lucky, Lucky Asshole

After we got our suits, things went into overdrive. Days blended into the short months until the big day and those months seemed to whip past like a speeding train. Everything turned into a massive, ever-advancing waiting game. Despite how busy we got, our enthusiasm only died down when we fell asleep—and, even then, it didn’t at times. And I know it all sounds overly poetic and stupid, but that’s what it felt like.

And, when the day came, things barely slowed down. I was swept up by John and Jade, both of whom helped me prepare. John helped me get into my suit—the one with the silver vest that I’d been admiring, to be exact—and Jade helped me at least attempt to get my hair in presentable shape.

After fixing me up, John rushed out to the music room, where Dave was waiting. (Poor guy had to be best man for both of us.) I waited until Rose showed up to show me into the living room—because, of course, Dave got his budget wedding—and I saw him. And that tailored suit just… Holy fucking shit. If there’s one thing I want to see again before I die, it’s an image of how damned fine he looked that day. Because he just looked fucking fantastic.

To be honest, he was the only thing I noticed the entire time. Literally the only thing I can remember that day is just looking at him and wondering how the fuck I landed with such a beautiful piece of shit. Really, nothing made it into my memory aside from the fact that he was as close to perfect as I could get with any human being.

Not that it mattered that I never remembered the ceremony. Rose videotaped the whole thing and the affair only lasted maybe ten minutes at most. After that, we got together with guests—a whopping three of them (John, Jade, and Rose)—and had a combination Christmas/wedding dinner. And, even then, my attentions were set on Dave. For some damned stupid reason, I couldn’t stop watching him—watching him laugh and smile. Really, I think that might have been the happiest day of his life since we’d met. At least, I’d like to think it was. He’s too much of a stubborn, elusive asshole to admit whether or not it was.

For me, at least, it didn’t matter that I didn’t actually remember anything except for watching Dave near-obsessively. As predictable and sappy as it is of me, I have to admit that that day near-immediately established itself as one of the highlights of my corporeal existence. Because, to me, that day was the culmination of nearly four years of emotional bullshit. It was something that, if you told me it would happen a year before then, I would have laughed at (and then probably gotten illegally drunk about). It was both what my inner hopeless romantic had always dreamt about and, yet, it was nothing like what I imagined it to be. It was like Dave, really. It was one massive clusterfuck of surprises—some good, some bad, some indifferent—but, in all, it was a massive clusterfuck of pure bliss.

**_My mind didn’t stop racing until late that night._ **   
**_I didn’t calm down enough to really take things in_ **   
**_until I found myself in bed with him for the umpteenth_ **   
**_time and, yet, it felt so new. It felt so right._ **

By then, we were both exhausted.

We were both sprawled out in bed. I was nestled comfortably in his arms. I could feel his breath brushing against the back of my neck. I felt every rise and fall of his chest. I heard his heartbeat and absentmindedly rested my forehead against the soft cotton of his undershirt. “You know what, Dave?” I muttered.

“Hm?” He shifted himself a bit more onto his side and gently pulled me closer to his chest.

“I think we did damned well,” I whispered. “I mean… You’re great. You’re an asshole, but you’re great.”

“We’re both assholes, Karkat,” he yawned. “We’re both massive assholes, but that might just be why we get along so well, hm?” Even without seeing his face, I could tell he was smirking. And, before I knew what was happening, I felt his hands against my chest. He threw his weight so that I was pinned beneath him as he balanced on his hands and knees. Even in the darkness, I could make out the faint outline of the grin stretched across his face. I could hear it in his voice. “I love you, you piece of shit. You know that, right?”

“Well,” I snickered, “We just got married. I would fucking hope so.”

“Maybe I did it for the life insurance,” Dave shot back, dropping back onto his side. “Maybe I’m planning on pushing you out the window or something.” Despite his words, I felt his hands running over my neck and shoulders. I felt him gently pull me onto my side so that we were facing each other.

“Yeah?” I replied skeptically.

He laughed. He rested his forehead against mine and let forth one of those beautiful, rare laughs. It was a sound that pierced through the air like a crisp, clear birdsong and sank straight into the deepest reaches of my memory. It settled in every corner of my mind. “Yup. You better watch your ass, darlin’, because I’ll be filing for life insurance on that.”

“I doubt it.” I tried to sound skeptical. It came out as more of a half-growl, half-laugh.

And I have a feeling that Dave loved it, because his reply was to press his lips to mine. To run his fingers through my hair and let his other hand rest gently against my neck. When he pulled away, the fingers that had been entangled in my hair slid down and graced over my lips before he spoke, his words echoing in my mind as I slowly drifted to sleep. “I guess I kind of love you, you asshole.”

And, before I fully drifted into dreams that weren’t nearly as memorable as the day that preceded them, I distinctly remember replying, “And I guess I have to say I sort of love you back, you insufferable prick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So, thanks for reading BUT we're not quite done yet. There's one more "actual" update left before it's actually officially over. After that, I'm thinking about maybe adding "bonus" chapters. So, basically, I plan on turning this into a drabble dump. It'll probably end up with the last chapter having the last official title followed by an assortment of smaller stories that I'll drop from time to time.


	23. Epilogue: Looking Back

Time passed. Things changed and we did, too; but, despite the occasional fights, we remained mostly inseparable.

Dave maintained his music teaching business. He built himself a reputation as both a competent instructor and a masterful guitarist. Though he’d begun with the policy that he’d never teach anyone over twelve, most of his students ended up being part of one massive oddball extended family sort of deal. He eventually ended up teaching people even older than himself. Many of the students he taught in his first ten years of work kept in touch with him over the years. Some moved on past their musical training, others became musicians of varying fame.

After a while, though, I moved on to having a more lucrative desk job. Unlike Dave, though, I hated my job. I absolutely, positively hated it. But I stuck with it until I’d saved up enough money to buy something that Dave started talking about when he turned thirty.

A decade of button-punching corporate bullshit later, I’d made enough money (and more as a bonus) to present Dave with a gently used accessible motorhome. I gave it to him on his fortieth birthday and we embarked on a cross-country parade of insanity. He did most of the driving. (I’m not a great person to let behind the wheel on a freeway.)

I quit my shitty corporate job. He took two years off. And we left. We just fucking left. We packed all the medical supplies we’d need, some clothes, and some basic snacks. Then, we started.

Dave’s first goal was New York. From there, we took turns picking places. My first pick was Lancaster, Pennsylvania. And it flipped back and forth for the following two years. Dave liked to say that “we left a pile of shit” wherever we went. We made it as far north as Ontario and even wound up in Disney World as some point. I’m not sure why, seeing as Dave theorized that Disney was a company bent on taking over the world, but we did. And Dave loved it. Hell, we hit up Universal while we were there, too.

As far as east and west went, we managed to stick a pin on our corkboard map for most of the major east coast cities. We checked out a few sparse spots in the central United States and even managed to narrowly dodge a tornado. For the west coast, we smeared our bullshit over most of California and Boring, Oregon. (Dave later admitted he really just wanted novelty items from there. Apparently, he thought it was hilarious that there was actually a place called Boring.)

When Dave turned fifty, I used what remained of the mild fortune I’d stockpiled from my desk job (as Dave made enough to support both of us comfortably) to treat Dave to a European mini-tour. We went country-hopping for a year. The affair began with us shitting around in Ireland before moving to England, Scotland, and Wales. From there, we began invading mainland Europe—France, Germany, Spain, Austria, Italy, and (for some reason) the Czech Republic.

At home, things were just as spectacular. For all we bickered and jeered and laughed at each other, we loved each other. We took care of each other. Aside from that, I took my vow to stick by him in sickness and health quite seriously. After all, I already knew I’d need to.

After we came back from Europe, Dave’s health did exactly what doctors told us it would. It started to crash and burn faster than an iron cage filled with burning wood. Even before then, by the time he was forty-five, he was waiting for a liver transplant. At forty-three, _I_ was facing the possibility of being a bachelor. Somehow, though, he managed to hang on long enough to get the transplant. By fifty, he was back to about as normal as he could be.

That’s not to say that life was absolutely perfect. We still fought from time to time. We’d passed our peak and health problems were starting to creep up on us. Dave had it worse than I did, though. By fifty, he was complaining of shoulder pain. Shortly thereafter, his depression came out strong. He was forced to stop riding his motorbike—the last link he had to his brother’s wild lifestyle, seeing as he’d stopped his skatepark stunts a long while back. (Which is another story altogether.)

At fifty-five, we were advised to get rid of his old manual chair and get a power chair. By the end of the year, he was teaching me to play guitar to maintain his business. Apparently, His Ever-Stubborn Highness had refused recommended regular check-ups—despite telling me he was going—and the wear and tear on his muscles and joints went unchecked. So, naturally, his shoulders started to pretty much fall apart. Seeing as he was reasonably bummed out about not being able to play guitar as easily as before, he dealt with another round of severe depression. But, with a hell of a lot of his own resolve and some mild help from me, we both managed to make it out of that tunnel.

_**And, so, that brings us to today.** _  
_**Dave and I sit outside beneath an admittedly shaky overhang.** _  
_**We watch as the late December snow falls from the sky and** _  
_**settles in a thick blanket around us.** _

Dave had built the overhanging canopy years ago. Back when we were still young and stupid. I had installed it. Like us, it’s long since passed its heyday. The fabric that was stapled on the underside to stave off decay is peeling away. The layer of slate roofing tiles that covered the top have long since faded to a brittle, crumbling grey.

We’re not that much different. While I still handle the cold far better than Dave ever did, even I’m bundled in a thick wool overcoat. My breath rises as wisps of condensation as I stare at the frozen-over artificial pond that Dave had dug up when we were in our mid-thirties.

Dave is huddled in a matching blanket. He wears a bright red flat cap and the brim rests gently against the upper ridge of his beaten up old shades. A few weeks ago, he turned sixty. And, in some ways, he looks it. But, still, there’s something beautiful about him. There’s something charming about the way he snickers as he watches me write this on the last few pages of one of my many diaries.

Much like me, his appearance has changed over the years. His face bears fine lines that show how much he laughed and smiled and frowned. His broad shoulders are still in the process of thinning down and his hair is a bit wispier than it was when we first met. He’s since taken a liking to dyeing it light grey. (He’s been doing it since he got the power chair. His excuse is that it makes him look wiser. Really, I think he’s just starting to mildly act his age.)

He makes some sort of snide comment about me wasting time on this memoir. When I look up, a shitty, insufferable, handsome grin is spread across his face.

So, naturally, I flick him off and keep writing.

Really, nothing’s changed.

We’re both still assholes and he’s still an insufferable prick. Though I do most of the demonstrations (seeing as Dave had developed fairly predictable but still conventionally unusual amounts of damage to most of the muscles and joints in his arms), he still teaches his guitar classes daily. He still retains a mild aesthetic crush on John Egbert. And, though he’s currently jeering at me about being a complete and utter asshole, he still loves me. Likewise, I still love him. I’m not going to admit it out loud, though.

He’s grown to—for the most part—love himself, too. And, at least for me, I take a great deal of pride in that fact. In a way, I think he does, too. While he has his days, most of the time he carries himself with a sense of very real confidence. More importantly, that confidence usually isn’t fake these days. He prides himself in his own imperfections—the things that make him the lovable, relatable, flawed shit-stain that I’ve come to love.

And, yes, he’s beaten the odds. And he’ll be the first to say that it wasn’t easy; but, he’ll also be quick to admit that he did it for me as much as he did for himself. He’ll also point out that everyone reacts differently to life-changing events and that he’s just an asshole with the ability to simultaneously laugh at and shit his pants about the topic of mortality.

Yes, he’s still probably the best person I’ve ever gotten oral from. (Okay, fine, he’s really the only person. But, hey, that still counts. I think.) And fuck off, Dave, stop reading this. This is my personal journal. Thank you.

Anyhow, I should wrap this up before that nosy piece of shit starts breathing down my neck again. (Not that I’d hate him doing that, though. If you get what I mean. Wow. I _am_ a fucking dork.) So, I’ll just say this…

I never would have expected my life to end up like it did. If you told me at my high school graduation that I’d be marrying the class’ then-modern approximation of John Travolta’s character in Grease, I probably would have laughed myself to death. If you told me I’d be with him for the rest of his life, I would have laughed my ass all the way into the afterlife. If you went that final step and told me I’d be writing a memoir about our lives together on this particular anniversary day—after thirty-six motherfucking years together—I would’ve completed my cycle of jackassery and just laughed my way straight to hell.

But, now that I’m here—as I feel his hand against my arm—I know that it’s reality. It’s my reality and, sure, it’s not what I thought it would be. But, like him, it’s a damned fine reality. I love it and, despite all the bullshit we’ve plowed through together, he’ll admit to loving it, too, if you bug him long enough.

Maybe John knew it would turn out this way. Or, maybe, he just thought we’d be good friends. I don’t know. He’s yet to admit to either scenario. But, I like to think that fate let John give us a push—that we were very specifically picked out for each other when the moment was right. After all, how else could such terrible assholes end up falling for each other? Surely, the world had to have planned to put up with our immature bullshit until we died; otherwise, the world would probably have imploded on itself by now.

Either way—fate or not—it’s far too late to leave now. And I’m too damned in love with the fucker to leave, anyhow. I’ve grown so fucking attached to his stupid, smug grin and that shitty holier-than-thou air that he has about him. And, though he’ll only admit it late at night, he’s come to love me, too. And how do I know that? Because, though he vehemently denies it, he tells me so every night.

“Good night, you damned asshole,” he’ll say. And, then, just as he starts to lull off to sleep, he’ll add, “I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it. That's the last _official_ chapter. I'm planning on continuing to use this as a writing dump. I'll include drabbles and shit here in the future, but it'll be on a much less frequent basis. Still, thanks for reading and I'm surprised to have gotten so much positive feedback! I'm glad you enjoyed it and I'm also not really sure how I managed to nearly complete the 50,000 NaNoWriMo goal for the first time in my life by writing a motherfucking Homestuck fic. I hope you liked the ending, by the way.
> 
> Any future installments will follow this chapter and be labelled as "Bonus" chapters. They'll fall in the same timeline and pretty much be occasional drabble/short story drops.
> 
>  **Thanks for reading!**  
>  If, for some reason, you want to make something related to this fic, please go ahead! Just link back to this fic. On Tumblr, I've mad the tag fic: skid marks for such use. If anyone decides to do that. (IDEK.)


	24. BONUS 01: Nintendorks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus number one, based on my headcanon that Dave "ironically" likes Nintendo. Also, get it? Link is the hero of time. And Dave is the Knight of... You know what? I'm just going to sit over here in the corner and think about my shitty jokes.

About a month into our marriage—some time in early February, to be exact—Dave got this godawful bug up his ass about retro gaming. And by "retro gaming," he was very, very specific. He was looking for either a Nintendo 64 or a Gamecube to fulfill his odd cravings. So, naturally, we started going to a lot of antique stores and thrift shops. Really, every visit was more of a tedious circus act (a circus that no one else could ever be paid money to even bother with, might I add) than any sort of casual visit. To start out, most of the places in our area were either outrageously huge or outlandishly tiny. Either we both got lost in some sort of labyrinthine of old shit or Dave just flat out couldn't do anything in the crowded supply room of a store.

Not that it prevented him from trying. We had to fork over at least $300 of backup for the bullshit that Dave ended up breaking or damaging in his attempts to move around. And the list was a comparable fucking sitcom of indifferent stubbornness. Nearly seventy-five dollars were paid to a local store after Dave's chair got stuck between a bookshelf and some sort of hideous antique chest that got scraped to hell. Another fifty dollars went to a thrift store after Dave finally extracted himself from a tight spot, only to end up ramming into a display of retro lamps. (And, yes, they were official "retro lamps," if the massive sign hanging above them was to be believed. At the very least, the owners of the shop were proud enough of their collection of outdated lighting fixtures to make a three foot wide sign with just "RETRO LAMPS!!!" emblazoned across it.) Twenty dollars for an apparently "authentically used" copy of Mao's Little Red Book in (for some reason) French that Dave knocked off the shelf before accidentally running it over  _seven fucking times_. And I could just keep going on and on about all the bullshit that Dave managed to fuck over in his multiple visits. Hell, we were banned from one store. But that's not the point here.

No, the cherry on top of the wild fucking scavenger hunt came on a Saturday in mid-February when we visited this hole-in-the-wall store in a former row house downtown. The place had some sort of ridiculous name, though I didn't bother taking any particular note of it, and it was seedy as fuck. According to Dave, though, it was the "damned near perfect" place to find his bullshit. So, we parked in this tiny little gravel patch—a piss-poor excuse for a parking lot, if you ask me—and proceeded to take a good fifteen minutes to figure out how to get Dave out without ruining his chair, his car, or his goddamned ass. Eventually, Dave just convinced me to take control of his awkward modified vehicle and park it for him after dropping him safely on the sidewalk. This meant that there were a further ten minutes of me awkwardly grabbing at the controls.

Once we got inside, things only got more interesting. The place was as tiny and cramped as we'd expected, and the multitude of old electronics scattered haphazardly across the floor only exacerbated the issue. Sure, they made a nice little ramp outside the door, but it didn't really help much that they threw their merchandise fucking everywhere. Naturally, this meant that I got to do that lovely, awkward routine where I explained to the available staff that Dave wasn't exactly going to jump up and tap dance around the store and that I'd probably have to move merchandise around to push him around the place. They were, at least, pretty apathetic about the whole thing. I liked that they didn't make any snide remarks and Dave enjoyed their lack of any sort of meaningful reply. (No reply is a lot better than the usual, "If you believe in yourself..." or some other fanciful fuck-nugget of bullshit advice.)

From there, we proceeded to wander through the store. The routine was pretty simple. I waddled awkwardly beside Dave, pushing him with one hand while I snatched up valuable used electronics with the other before he rammed into them. (I did a pretty good job, actually. At least I saved that $300 used whatever-the-fuck-it-was from being crushed beneath Dave's sheer indifference.) After maybe half an hour of wandering around, Dave managed to spot  _something_. And it just figures that it'd be stuck on a shelf that only I could reach.

"Hey, jackass, it's up there. The red game with that indigo Gamecube," he commented.

I, meanwhile, sighed apprehensively. From my place, I could see the price tag. The actual console wasn't too bad. Fifty dollars. Fine. No, what bothered me was the price tag on the game. "One seventeen. One hundred and seventeen fucking dollars," I read aloud.

Dave, in return, shrugged. "Ocarina of Time and the Master Quest version is a collector's item, dude. No big deal. I've seen it go for two hundred."

" _It's a video game that's over a decade old,_ " I insisted.

And, again, he returned with an infuriatingly indifferent shrug. He propped himself up against the left wheel of his chair and shifted his weight slightly before replying with a quiet snicker. "We just got paid that much by that one crazy mother who's convinced her child's the next Andrés Segovia," he laughed. "We can afford it, you cheap bastard."

"But do we even  _need_ this bullshit?" I grumbled.

"I do." With that much said, Dave pulled out his wallet and produced from it three hundred-dollar bills. He handed them over to me and smirked. "Grab those and buy them for me, dear. Hm?"

And, as much as I wanted to punch him in his goddamned smug face, I couldn't. Really, I was curious as to what sort of bullshit he was trying to drag me into. So, I went along with it. I snagged the money, the game, and the console with its two included controllers, and brought it to the front desk. Dave, meanwhile, managed to extricate himself from between the two overstocked shelves. Once the items were bagged, he eagerly snatched them away and set them on his lap before we wandered back to the car.

* * *

_**When we returned home, Dave was quick to set it all up.** _  
_**He took dictatorial control of the television in the living room** _  
_**and rigged his godawful bullshit up to it within minutes.** _  
_**Not even an hour had passed since coming home,** _  
_**and the place was already filled with the unholy** _  
_**noise of synthesized 90's video game music.** _  
_**Although, admittedly, this particular game** _  
_**had some fairly decent musical backup.** _

After a brief struggle with trying to act like an indifferent jackass to annoy him, I was drawn into the game by the image of a seedy-looking sentient shrub type thing that seemed to be attempting to make a business transaction with the main character. And the main character, as I quickly learned, was a small blond child with poor fashion sense, an even worse sense of fashionable headgear, and an outright fetish for the color green.

"I'm Link," Dave explained as he noticed that I'd begun to watch. He smirked, jabbed a finger at the blond child, and continued, "I'm supposed to be saving Hyrule from pretty much everything. And I've also go a pretty bitching outfit, so that's a plus."

"You're also talking to a goddamned bush," I pointed out.

"A business scrub," Dave corrected. "It is a business scrub. Not a shrub. Not a shrug. A business  _scrub_."

"And you're a business jackass. Point?" I sighed, rolling my eyes.

"Eh. Nothing much," he shrugged.

In an attempt to at least keep up my act of annoyance, I folded my arms across my chest and sunk deeper into Dave's armchair. I watched as he continued to play through some convoluted fuckbundle of a plot involving two distinctly different musical eggs and giant talking fish... rock... things. All the while, I enjoyed the little things about him that made him who he was. The way he smirked like a dumbass who won the biggest lottery in the world whenever he got through a dungeon. How he paused the game from time to time to hum a few notes of often random music to himself as he repositioned himself in his chair, shooting me a shitty grin the entire time. That quiet huff of "aw fuck" whenever he did something he didn't mean to.

And, as stupidly cliché as it sounds, I have to admit that I enjoyed every goddamned second. I reveled in the knowledge that he was just there, being his normal shitty self.

Eventually, he progressed to the point that his character turned into a polygonal adult shape and I made some sort of absentminded comment about how he looked like a man in a shitty asparagus costume. I also commented that the character bore a few passing resemblances to him, and he replied with a laugh. He saved the game, tossed me the controller, and worked his way to the bathroom. "You can try to play, jackass," he said, "Just don't save over my gorgeous playthrough."

I, in return, tried to act uninterested. Yet, once he was behind the bathroom door, I couldn't help but start playing. And it was actually pretty good. It was really good, actually. And I enjoyed it. And, predictably, Dave called out from the bathroom some sort of snide jackass commentary.

"I knew you'd play it, Karkat. Don't fuck up my game too much."

I, meanwhile, allowed myself the luxury of a quiet laugh before replying with a dramatic groan of faux annoyance.

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, the whole Neon Genesis Evangelion inclusion here is based off of a random thought I had once that just happened to be along the lines of "[dave strider screaming like shinji ikari]" but we all know Dave is total anime trash. You can stay up to date with the shit I do when I'm not writing at [my blog](http://tennantstype40.tumblr.com) and there's a tag there for the fic if you want to do something with it. IDEK.


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